Prince Edwin was not greatly alarmed, for he thought the king, his
brother, was only going to banish him to some foreign country, where he
fondly thought that Wilfrid and himself might live together very
happily. But when they were out of sight of land, and the moon had
risen over a wild waste of stormy billows, the king had both the
prisoners brought upon deck, and he then ordered the captain to put
them into a small boat and set them adrift at the mercy of the winds
and waves.
It was to no purpose that the wretched Edwin threw himself at his
brother's feet, and entreated for mercy. Athelstane only replied, "You
tried to persuade my faithful cup-bearer to take my life--your own
life, therefore, is forfeited; but, as you are the son of my royal
father, I will not shed your blood upon the scaffold. I commit you and
your guilty companion, the son of the traitor Cendric, to the mercy of
God, who can and will preserve the innocent if it be his good pleasure
so to do."
"And to His mercy, not thine, O king! do I, in full confidence of
innocence, commend both myself and my unfortunate master," said
Wilfrid, as the seamen hurried him, with the weeping Atheling, over the
side of the vessel into the little boat that lay tossing and rocking
among the tempestuous billows.
When the unhappy youths found themselves alone, without sails or
rudder, on the pathless ocean, they sank into each other's arms and
wept long and passionately.
At length Wilfrid lifted up his voice and heart in fervent prayer to
that Almighty and merciful God, who had delivered Daniel from the
lions' den, and preserved his faithful servants, Meshach, Shadrach and
Abednego, unharmed in the fiery furnace. Prince Edwin, on the
contrary, gave himself up to despair, and when he saw the king's ship
spreading her canvas to the gale, and fast receding from his sight, he
uttered a cry that was heard above the uproar of the winds and waves.
Starting up in the boat, and extending his arms toward the disappearing
vessel, he unwittingly lost his balance, and was in a moment ingulfed
in the stormy billows.
We may imagine the anguish and terror of Wilfrid on witnessing the sad
fate of his young lord, which he had no power to prevent. Thoughts of
his widowed mother's grief for himself, too, came over his mind and
filled his eyes with tears, for her, as well as for his ill-fated lord.
For himself, however, he felt no fears, even in this dreadful hour,
when left companionless on the tempestuous ocean, for his trust was
firm and steadfast in the mercies of his Heavenly Father.
That night the winds roared, and the waves raged mightily. Many a
gallant bark foundered in the storm, and many a skillful seaman found a
watery grave before the morning dawned in the cloudy horizon. But the
frail vessel into which the unfortunate Atheling and his page had been
thrust, weathered the gale and, with her lonely tenant, Wilfrid, was
driven ashore at a place called Whitesande, on the coast of Picardy, in
France.
When Wilfrid landed, he was drenched through and through. He was
hungry, too, and sorrowful and weary. He knew not where he was, but he
failed not to return thanks to that gracious God who had preserved him
from the perils of the raging seas to which he had been so awfully
exposed, and whose merciful providence, he doubted not, would guide and
sustain him in the strange land whither he had been conducted.
Thus meekly, thus nobly, did the young page support himself under this
fresh trial. But when the remembrance of the unfortunate Atheling, his
royal master, came over him, his heart melted within him; he bowed his
face on his knees as he sat all lonely on the sea beach, and he wept
aloud, exclaiming--
"Oh, Edwin! royal Edwin! hadst thou patiently trusted in the mercy of
God thou slightest, notwithstanding thy late adversity, have lived to
wear the crown of thy father Edward." Overpowered by his emotions, he
again sank upon the ground.
"Is it of Edwin of England that thou speakest, young Saxon?" asked a
soft voice in the sweet familiar language of his own native land.
He raised his head and found that he was surrounded by a party of
ladies, one of whom questioned him with an air of eager interest
respecting the expressions he had used touching the unfortunate Prince
Edwin.
Now this lady was no other than Ogina, Queen of France, the sister of
Prince Edwin. Being on a visit at the house of a great lord on the
coast of Picardy, she had come down to the beach that morning, with her
ladies of honor, to bathe: a custom among ladies, even of the highest
rank, in those days. Hearing that a Saxon bark had been driven on
shore by the storm, and seeing the disconsolate figure of Wilfrid on
the beach, she had drawn near, and, unperceived by the suffering youth,
had overheard his melancholy soliloquy.
While Wilfrid related the sad story of his master's untimely fate, the
royal lady wept aloud. After he had concluded his melancholy tale, she
took him to the castle of which she was herself an inmate, and
commended him to the care of her noble host, who quickly attended to
all his wants, and furnished him with dry garments.
When Wilfrid had taken due rest and refreshment, the queen requested
that he should be brought into her presence. He was, accordingly,
ushered into a stately apartment, where Ogina was seated under a
crimson canopy, fringed with gold. She bade him draw near, and
extended her hand toward him. Being well acquainted with courtly
customs, the youth respectfully bowed his knee and humbly kissed the
hand of the royal lady, who proceeded to say,--
"Thou hast been found true when the only reward thou didst expect for
thy faithfulness was a cruel death. But surely thou hast been
conducted by a kind Providence into the presence of one who has both
the will and the power to requite thee for thy fidelity to the
unfortunate Atheling; for I am his sister, the Queen of France."
"And I have then the honor to stand before the royal Ogina, daughter of
my late lord, King Edward, and Queen of King Charles of France?" said
Wilfrid, again bowing himself.
"The same," replied the queen, taking a ring of great value from her
finger and placing it on that of the page.
"Take this ring," continued she, "in token of my favor; and if thou
wilt serve me in one thing, I will make thee the greatest lord in my
husband's court."
"Royal lady," said Wilfrid, "I have a widowed mother in my own land
whom I cannot forsake; neither would I desert my native country to
become a peer of France. But tell me wherein I can be of service to
thee, and if it be in my power it shall be done."
"Darest thou," said the queen, "return to England and presenting
thyself before my brother Athelstane, thy king, declare to him the
innocence and the sad fate of Edwin, the Atheling, his father's son?"
"Lady, I not only dare, but I desire so to do," replied Wilfrid; "for I
fear my God, and I have no other fear."
Then the Queen of France loaded Wilfrid with rich presents, and sent
him over to England in a gallant ship to bear the mournful tidings of
poor Prince Edwin's death to England's king. She thought that when
Athelstane should hear the sad tale told in the pathetic language of
the faithful page, his heart would be touched with remorse for what he
had done.
Now King Athelstane was already conscience-stricken for his conduct
toward his brother Edwin. His ship, during the same night that he had
compelled him to enter the boat with Wilfrid, was terribly tossed by
the tempest, and he felt that the vengeance of God was upon him for his
hardness of heart. The crew of the royal vessel had toiled and labored
all night, and it was with great difficulty that the ship was at length
got into port. Every individual on board, as well as the king himself,
felt convinced that the storm was a visitation upon them for what they
had done.
King Athelstane had become very melancholy and offered large rewards to
any one who would bring him news of his unfortunate brother; and he
looked with horror upon Brithric as the cause of his having dealt so
hardly with Edwin. One day, when Brithric was waiting at table with
the king's cup, it happened that his foot slipped, and he would have
fallen if he had not dexterously saved himself with the other foot:
observing some of the courtiers smile, he cried out jestingly, "See
you, my lords, how one brother helps the other."
"It is thus that brother should aid brother," said the king; "but it
was thee, false traitor, that did set me against mine! for the which
thou shalt surely pay the forfeit of thy life in the same hour that
tidings are brought me of his death."
At that moment Wilfrid, presenting himself before the king, said, "King
Athelstane, I bring thee tidings of Edwin the Atheling!"
"The fairest earldom in my kingdom shall be the reward of him who will
tell me that my brother liveth," exclaimed the king eagerly.
"If thou wouldst give the royal crown of England from off thine head it
would not bribe the deep sea to give up its dead!" replied the page.
"Who art thou that speakest such woeful words?" demanded Athelstane,
fixing his eyes with a doubting and fearful scrutiny on the face of the
page.
"Hast thou forgotten Wilfrid, the son of Cendric?" replied the youth;
"he who commended himself to the mercy of the King of kings, in that
dark hour when thy brother Edwin implored for thine in vain."
"Ha!" cried the king, "I remember thee now; thou art the pale stripling
who bore witness of my brother's innocence of the crime with which the
false-tongued Brithric charged him!"
"The same, my lord," said Wilfrid; "and God hath witnessed for my truth
by preserving me from the waters of the great deep, to which thou didst
commit me with my lord, Prince Edwin."
"But Edwin--my brother Edwin! tell me of him!" cried Athelstane,
grasping the shoulder of the page.
"Did not his drowning cry reach thine ear, royal Athelstane?" asked
Wilfrid, bursting into tears. "Ere thy tall vessel had disappeared
from our sight the fair-haired Atheling was ingulfed in the stormy
billows that swelled round our frail bark, and I, only I, am, by the
especial mercy of God, preserved to tell thee the sad fate of thy
father's son, whom thou wert, in an evil hour, moved by a treacherous
villain to destroy."
"Traitor," said the king, turning to Brithric, "thy false tongue hath
not only slain my brother, but thyself! Thou shalt die for having
wickedly induced me to become his murderer!"
"And thou wilt live, O king, to suffer the pangs of an upbraiding
conscience," replied the culprit. "Where was thy wisdom, where thy
discrimination, where thy sense of justice, when thou lent so ready an
ear to my false and improbable accusations against thy boyish brother?
I sought my own aggrandizement--and to have achieved that I would have
destroyed thee and placed him upon the throne. I made him my tool--you
became my dupe--and I now myself fall a victim to my own machinations."
The guards then removed Brithric from the royal presence, and the next
day he met with his deserts in a public execution.
As for the faithful Wilfrid, King Athelstane not only caused the lands
and titles of which his father, Cendric, had been deprived, to be
restored to him, but also conferred upon him great honors and rewards.
He lived to be the pride and comfort of his widowed mother, Ermengarde,
and ever afterward enjoyed the full confidence of the king.
The royal Athelstane never ceased to lament the death of his
unfortunate brother, Edwin. He gained many great victories, and
reigned long and gloriously over England, but he was evermore tormented
by remorse of conscience for his conduct toward his youthful brother,
Prince Edwin.
CISSY'S AMENDMENT.
BY ANNA L. PARKER.
She was a dainty, blue-eyed, golden-haired darling, who had ruled her
kingdom but four short years when the events in our history occurred.
Very short the four years had seemed, for the baby princess brought
into the quiet old house such a wealth of love, with its golden
sunshine, that time had passed rapidly since her arrival, as time
always does when we are happy and contented.
Our little princess did not owe her title to royal birth, but to her
unquestioned sway over those around her; a rule in which was so happily
blended entreaty and command that her willing subjects were never quite
sure to which they were yielding. But of one thing they were sure,
which was that the winning grace of the little sovereign equaled their
pleasures in obeying her small commands, and the added fact--a very
important one--that this queen of hearts never abused her power.
No little brothers nor sisters were numbered among the princess'
retainers, but she had had from her babyhood an inseparable companion
and playfellow in Moses. Now Moses was a big brown dog who, like his
namesake of old, had been rescued from a watery grave, and it chanced
that baby-girl and baby-dog became inmates of the quiet old house about
the same time. But the dog grew much faster than the little girl, as
dogs are wont to do, and was quite a responsible person by the time
Cissy could toddle around. When she was old enough to play under the
old elm tree Moses assumed the place of protector of her little
highness, and was all the bodyguard the princess needed, for he was
wise and unwearied in his endeavors to guard her from all mishaps.
But, although Moses felt the responsibility of his position, he did not
consider it beneath his dignity to amuse his mistress, and so they
played together, baby and dog, shared their lunch together, and
frequently took their nap together of a warm afternoon, the golden
curls of the little princess tumbled over Moses' broad, shaggy shoulder.
One day when Cissy was about four years old an event occurred in her
life that seemed for a time to endanger the intimacy between the little
girl and her four-footed friend, and caused Moses considerable anxiety.
It was a rainy morning and she could not play under the trees as usual,
so she took her little chair and climbed up to the window to see if the
trees were lonesome without her. Something unusual going on in the
house next door attracted her attention, and her disappointment was
soon forgotten. No one had lived in the house since the little girl
could remember. Now the long closed doors and windows were thrown wide
open, and men were running up and down the steps. She was puzzled to
know what it could all mean, and kept her little face close to the
window, and was so unmindful of Moses that he felt quite neglected and
lonely.
The following morning was warm and bright, and the little princess and
her attendant were playing under the trees again. Moses was so
delighted in having won the sole attention of his little mistress and
played so many droll pranks that Cissy shouted with laughter. In the
midst of her merriment she chanced to look up, and saw through the
paling a pair of eyes as bright as her own, dancing with fun and
evidently enjoying Moses' frolic quite as much as the little girl
herself. The bright eyes belonged to a little boy about Cissy's age,
whose name was Jamie, and who had moved into the house that had
interested her so much the day before.
Now our little princess in her winning way claimed the allegiance of
all that came within her circle, and so confidently ran over to the
fence to make the acquaintance of her new subject. Jamie was quite
willing to be one of her servitors, and although they were separated by
the high palings they visited through the openings all the morning, and
for many mornings after, exchanging dolls, books, balls, and strings,
and becoming the best of friends. This new order of things was not
quite satisfactory to Moses, who felt he was no longer necessary to
Cissy's happiness. He still kept his place close beside her, and tried
to be as entertaining as possible. But do what he would he could not
coax her away from her new-found friend, and all the merry plays under
the old elm tree seemed to have come to an end, but Cissy was not
really ungrateful to her old playfellow. She was deeply interested in
her new companion and for the time somewhat forgetful of Moses, which
is not much to be wondered at when we remember what great advantage
over Moses Jamie had in one thing. He could talk with Cissy and Moses
could not. But although the dog's faithful heart ached at the neglect
of his little mistress, he did not desert his place of protector, but
watched and guarded the princess while she and her friend prattled on
all the long, bright days, quite unconscious of his trouble.
One afternoon Cissy's happiness reached its highest point. Her mother
had been watching the visiting going on through the fence, and saw
Cissy's delight in her new companion, so, unknown to her, she wrote a
note asking that Jamie be permitted to come into the yard and play
under the elm tree. When Cissy saw Jamie coming up the walk in her own
yard, her delight knew no bounds. She ran to meet him, and dolls and
buggies and carts and everything she prized was generously turned over
to her visitor. How quickly the afternoon passed.
Moses was as happy as the children themselves--for if he could not talk
he could at least bark, and now they were altogether under the tree,
his troubles were forgotten and which were the happier, children or
dog, it were hard to say. So with merry play the beautiful day came to
a close. The sun was sending up his long golden beams in the west.
Jamie was called home, and Cissy came into the house. The tired little
eyes were growing drowsy and the soft curls drooped over the nodding
head when mamma undressed her little girl to make her ready for bed.
Then Cissy knelt beside her little bed and repeated the prayer she had
been taught: "Now, I lay me down to sleep," and "God bless papa and
mamma and everybody, and make Cissy a good girl." But when she had
done she did not rise as usual; looking up earnestly at her mother, she
said: "Please, mamma, I want to pray my own prayer now." Then folding
her little hands, the sweet childish voice took on an earnestness it
had not shown before, as she said: "Dear Father in heaven, I thank you
for making Jamie, and 'cause his mamma let him come in my yard to play.
Please make lots more Jamies," and with this sincere expression of her
grateful heart, and her loving recognition that all our blessings come
from the Father above, the tired, happy little girl was ready for bed,
and soon asleep.
Moses lay sleeping contentedly on the rug beside the princess' little
bed. He too had had a happy day. I wonder if he had any way to
express his thankfulness to his Creator, the same Father in heaven to
which Cissy prayed, for the love and companionship of his little
playfellows, and for the bright, happy day he had spent? I believe he
had. What do you think about it?
THE WINTER'S TALE.
AS TOLD BY MARY SEYMOUR.
Leontes of Sicily, and Hermione, his lovely queen, lived together in
the greatest harmony--a harmony and happiness so perfect that the king
said he had no wish left to gratify excepting the desire to see his old
companion Polixenes, and present him to the friendship of his wife.
Polixenes was king of Bohemia; and it was not until he had received
many invitations that he came to visit his friend Leontes of Sicily.
At first this was the cause of great joy. It seemed that Leontes never
tired of talking over the scenes of bygone days with his early friend,
while Hermione listened well pleased. But when Polixenes wished to
depart, and both the king and the queen entreated him to remain yet
longer, it was the gentle persuasion of Hermione which overcame his
resistance, rather than the desire of his friend Leontes, who upon this
grew both angry and jealous, and began to hate Polixenes as much as he
had loved him.
At length his feelings became so violent that he gave an order for the
King of Bohemia to be killed. But fortunately he intrusted the
execution of this command to Camillo--a good man, who helped his
intended victim to escape to his own dominions. At this, Leontes was
still more angry and, rushing to the room where his wife was engaged
with her little son Mamillius took the child away, and ordered poor
Hermione to prison.
While she was there, a little daughter was born to her; and a lady who
heard of this, told the queen's maid Emilia, that she would carry the
infant into the presence of its father if she might be intrusted with
it, and perhaps his heart would soften toward his wife and the innocent
babe.
Hermione very willingly gave up her little daughter into the arms of
the lady Paulina, who forced herself into the king's presence, and laid
her precious burden at his feet, boldly reproaching him with his
cruelty to the queen. But Paulina's services were of no avail: the
king ordered her away, so she left the little child before him,
believing, when she retired, that his proud, angry heart would relent.
But she was mistaken. Leontes bade one of his courtiers take the
infant to some desert isle to perish; and Antigonus, the husband of
Paulina, was the one chosen to execute this cruel purpose.
The next action of the king was to summon Hermione to be tried for
having loved Polixenes too well. Already he had had recourse to an
oracle; and the answer, sealed up, was brought into court and opened in
the presence of the much-injured queen:
"Hermione is innocent; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject;
Leontes a jealous tyrant; and the king shall live without an heir, if
that which is lost be not found."
Thus it ran; but the angry king said it was all a falsehood, made up by
the queen's friends, and he bade them go on with the trial. Yet even
as he spoke, a messenger entered to say that the king's son Mamillius
had died suddenly, grieving for his mother. Hermione, overcome by such
sad tidings, fainted; and then Leontes, feeling some pity for her, bade
her ladies remove her, and do all that was possible for her recovery.
Very soon Paulina returned, saying that Hermione, the queen, was also
dead. Now Leontes repented of his harshness; now he readily believed
she was all that was good and pure; and, beginning to have faith in the
words of the oracle which spoke of that which was lost being found,
declared he would give up his kingdom could he but recover the lost
baby he had sent to perish.
The ship which had conveyed Antigonus with the infant princess away
from her father's kingdom, was driven onshore upon the Bohemian
territory, over which Polixenes reigned. Leaving the child there,
Antigonus started to return to his ship; but a savage bear met and
destroyed him, so that Leontes never heard how his commands had been
fulfilled.
When poor Hermione had sent her baby in Paulina's care to be shown to
her royal father, she had dressed it in its richest robes, and thus it
remained when Antigonus left it. Besides, he pinned a paper to its
mantle upon which the name Perdita was written.
Happily, a kind-hearted shepherd found the deserted infant, and took it
home to his wife, who cherished it as her own. But they concealed the
fact from every one; and lest the tale of the jewels upon Perdita's
little neck should be noised abroad, he sold some of them, and leaving
that part of the country, bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy
shepherd.
Little Perdita grew up as sweet and lovely as her unknown mother; yet
she was supposed to be only a shepherd's child.
Polixenes of Bohemia had one only son--Florizel by name; who, hunting
near the shepherd's dwelling, saw the fair maiden, whose beauty and
modesty soon won his love. Disguising himself as a private gentleman,
instead of appearing as the king's son, Florizel took the name of
Doricles, and came visiting at the shepherd's dwelling. So often was
he there, and thus so frequently missed at court, that people began to
watch his movements, and soon discovered that he loved the pretty
maiden Perdita.
When this news was carried to Polixenes, he called upon his faithful
servant Camillo to go with him to the shepherd's house; and they
arrived there in disguise just at the feast of sheep-shearing, when
there was a welcome for every visitor.
It was a busy scene. There was dancing on the green, young lads and
lassies were chaffering with a peddler for his goods, sports were going
on everywhere; yet Florizel and Perdita sat apart, talking happily to
each other.
No one could have recognized the king; even Florizel did not observe
him as he drew near enough to listen to the conversation of the young
people. Perdita's way of speaking charmed him much--it seemed
something very different to the speech of a shepherd's daughter; and,
turning to Camillo, Polixenes said:
"Nothing she does or seems
But tastes of something greater than her self,
Too noble for this place."
Then he spoke to the old shepherd, asking the name of the youth who
talked to his daughter.
"They call him Doricles," said the man; adding, too, that if he indeed
loved Perdita, he would receive with her something he did not reckon
on. By this the shepherd meant a part of her rich jewels which he had
not sold, but kept carefully until such time as she should marry.
Polixenes turned to his son, telling him jestingly that he should have
bought some gift for his fair maid--not let the peddler go without
seeking anything for her.
Florizel little imagined it was his father talking to him, and he
replied that the gifts Perdita prized were those contained within his
heart; and then he begged the "old man" to be a witness of their
marriage.
Still keeping up his disguise, Polixenes asked Florizel if he had no
father to bid as a guest to his wedding. But the young man said there
were reasons why he should not speak of the matter to his father.
Polixenes chose this for the moment in which to make himself known; and
reproaching his son bitterly for giving his love to a low-born maiden,
bade him accompany Camillo back to court.
As the king retired thus angry, Perdita said, "I was not much afraid;
for once or twice I was about to speak, to tell him plainly,--
"The self-same sun that shines upon his court
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
Looks on alike."
Then she sorrowfully bade Florizel leave her.
Camillo felt sorry for the two, and thought of a way in which he could
stand their friend. Having known a long time that his former master,
Leontes, repented of all his cruelty, he proposed that Florizel and
Perdita should accompany him to Sicily to beg the king to win for them
the consent of Polixenes to their marriage.
The old shepherd was allowed to be of the party, and he took with him
the clothes and jewels which had been found with Perdita, and also the
paper on which her name had been written.
On their arrival, Leontes received Camillo with kindness, and welcomed
Prince Florizel; but it was Perdita who engrossed all his thoughts.
She seemed to remind him of his fair queen Hermione, and he broke out
into bitter self-accusation, saying that he might have had just such
another lovely maiden to call him father, but for his own cruelty.
The shepherd, listening to the king's lamentations, began to compare
the time when he had lost the royal infant with the time when Perdita
was found, and he came to the conclusion that she and the daughter of
Leontes were one and the same person. When he felt assured of this he
told his tale, showed the rich mantle which had been wrapped round the
infant, and her remaining jewels; and Leontes knew that his daughter
was brought back to him once more. Joyful as such tidings were, his
sorrow at the thought of Hermione, who had not lived to behold her
child thus grown into a fair maiden, almost exceeded his happiness, so
that he kept exclaiming, "Oh, thy mother! thy mother!"
Paulina now appeared, begging Leontes to go to her house and look at a
statue she possessed which greatly resembled Hermione. Anxious to see
anything like his much-lamented wife, the king agreed; and when the
curtain was drawn back his sorrow was stirred afresh. At last he said
that the statue gave Hermione a more aged, wrinkled look than when he
last beheld her; but Paulina replied, that if so, it was a proof of the
sculptor's art, who represented the queen as she would appear after the
sixteen years which had passed. She would have drawn the curtain
again, but Leontes begged her to wait a while, and again he appealed to
those about him to say if it was not indeed a marvelous likeness.
Perdita had all the while been kneeling, admiring in silence her
beautiful mother. Paulina presently said that she possessed the power
to make the statue move, if such were the king's pleasure; and as some
soft music was heard, the figure stirred. Ah! it was no sculptured
marble, but Hermione, living and breathing, who hung upon her husband
and her long-lost child!
It is needless to tell that Paulina's story of her royal mistress'
death was an invention to save her life, and that for all those years
she had kept the queen secluded, so that Leontes should not hear that
she was living until Perdita was found.
All was happiness; but none was greater than that of Camillo and
Paulina, who saw the reward of their long faithfulness. One more
person was to arrive upon the scene; even Polixenes, who came in search
of Florizel, and was thus in time to bless the union of the young
people, and take a share in the general joy.
A GRACIOUS DEED.
In an humble room in one of the poorest streets in London, Pierre, a
faithful French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother.
There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not
tasted food. Yet he sat humming to keep up his spirits. Still at
times he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely
keep the tears from his eyes, for he knew that nothing would be so
grateful to his poor mother as a good, sweet orange, and yet he had not
a penny in the world.
The little song he was singing was his own; one he had composed, both
air and words--for the child was a genius.
He went to the window, and looking out, he saw a man putting up a great
bill with yellow letters announcing that Mme. Malibran would sing that
night in public.
"Oh, if I could only go," thought little Pierre; and then pausing a
moment he clasped his hands, his eyes lighting with new hope. Running
to the little stand, he smoothed his yellow curls, and taking from a
little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother,
who slept, and ran speedily from the house.
"Who did you say was waiting for me?" said madame to her servant. "I
am already worn with company."
"It's only a very pretty little boy with yellow curls, who said if he
can just see you he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep
you a moment."
"Oh, well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, with a smile. "I
can never refuse children."
Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his hand a little
roll of paper. With manliness unusual for a child he walked straight
to the lady and, bowing, said: "I came to see you because my mother is
very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I thought,
perhaps, that if you would sing my little song at some of your grand
concerts, maybe some publisher would buy it for a small sum and so I
could get food and medicine for my mother."
The beautiful woman arose from her seat. Very tall and stately she
was. She took the roll from his hand and lightly hummed the air.
"Did you compose it?" she asked; "you a child! And the words? Would
you like to come to my concert?" she asked.
"Oh, yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness; "but I
couldn't leave my mother."
"I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening, and
there is a crown with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here
is also one of my tickets. Come to-night; that will admit you to a
seat near me."
Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a
little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid,
telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.
When evening came and Pierre was admitted to the concert hall he felt
that never in his life had he been in such a place. The music, the
myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of
silk, bewildered his eyes and brain.
At last she came, and the child sat with his glance riveted on her
glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with
jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his
little song?
Breathlessly he waited--the band, the whole band, struck up a plaintive
little melody. He knew it, and clasped his hands for joy. And oh, how
she sang it! It was so simple, so mournful. Many a bright eye dimmed
with tears, and naught could be heard but the touching words of that
little song.
Pierre walked home as if moving on air. What cared he for money now?
The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and
thousands had wept at his grief.
The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She
laid her hands on his yellow curls, and talking to the sick woman said:
"Your little boy, madame, has brought you a fortune. I was offered
this morning, by the best publisher in London, 300 pounds for his
little song, and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale,
little Pierre, here, is to share the profits. Madame, thank God that
your son has a gift from heaven."
The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As to
Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tired and tempted,
he knelt down by his mother's bedside and offered a simple but eloquent
prayer, asking God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to
notice their affliction.
The memory of that prayer made the singer more tender-hearted, and she,
who was the idol of England's nobility, went about doing good. And in
her early, happy death, he who stood beside her bed and smoothed her
pillow and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was
little Pierre of former days, now rich, accomplished, and the most
talented composer of his day.
TOM.
BY REV. C. H. MEAD.
Never did any one have a better start in life than Tom. Born of
Christian parents, he inherited from them no bad defects, moral or
physical. He was built on a liberal plan, having a large head, large
hands, large feet, large body, and within all, a heart big with
generosity. His face was the embodiment of good nature, and his laugh
was musical and infectious. Being an only child there was no one to
share with him the lavish love of his parents. They saw in him nothing
less than a future President of the United States, and they made every
sacrifice to fit him for his coming position. He was a prime favorite
with all, and being a born leader, he was ungrudgingly accorded that
position by his playmates at school and his fellows at the university.
He wrestled with rhetoric, and logic, and political economy, and
geometry, and came off an easy victor; he put new life into the dead
languages, dug among the Greek roots by day and soared up among the
stars by night. None could outstrip him as a student, and he easily
held his place at the head of his class. The dullest scholar found in
him a friend and a helper, while the brighter ones found in his
example, an incentive to do their best.
In athletic sports, too, he was excelled by none. He could run faster,
jump higher, lift a dumb-bell easier, strike a ball harder, and pull as
strong an oar as the best of them. He was the point of the flying
wedge in the game of foot-ball, and woe be to the opponent against whom
that point struck. To sum it all up, Tom was a mental and physical
giant, as well as a superb specimen of what that college could make out
of a young man. But unfortunately, it was one of those institutions
that developed the mental, trained the physical, and starved the
spiritual, and so it came to pass ere his college days were ended, Tom
had an enemy, and that enemy was the bottle.
The more respectable you make sin, the more dangerous it is. An old
black bottle in the rough hand of the keeper of a low dive, would have
no power to cause a clean young man to swerve from the right course,
but he is a hero ten times over, who can withstand the temptation of a
wine glass in the jeweled fingers of a beautiful young lady. Tom's
tempter came in the latter form, and she who might have spurred him on
to the highest goal, and whispered in his ear, "look not thou upon the
wine when it is red, when it giveth its color in the cup, when it
moveth itself aright," started him down a course which made him learn
from a terrible experience that "at the last it biteth like a serpent,
and stingeth like an adder." Does any one call a glass of wine a small
thing? Read Tom's story and then call it small, if you dare! Whatever
he did was done with his might, drinking not excepted. He boasted of
his power to drink much and keep sober, while he laughed at the
companions who imbibed far less and went to bed drunk. At first Tom
was the master and the bottle his slave, but in three years' time they
changed places. When too late, his parents discovered that the college
had sent back to them a ripe scholar, a trained athlete and a drunkard.
The mother tried to save her son, but failing in every effort, her
heart broke and she died with Tom's name on her lips. The father,
weighed down under the dead sorrow and the living trouble, vainly
strove to rescue his son, and was found one night in the attitude of
prayer, kneeling by the side of the bed where his wife's broken heart a
few months before had ceased to beat. He died praying for his boy!
One evening as the sun was setting, a man stood leaning against the
fence along one of the streets of a certain city. His clothes were
ragged, his hands and face unwashed, his hair uncombed and his eyes
bleared; he looked more like a wild beast hunted and hungry, than a
human being. It was Tom. The boys gathered about him, and made him
the object of their fun and ridicule. At first he seemed not to notice
them, but suddenly he cried out: "Cease your laughter until you know
what you are laughing at. Let me talk to my master while you listen."
He pulled a bottle from his pocket, held it up, and looking at it with
deep hatred flashing from his reddened eyes, he said:
"I was once your master; now I am your slave. In my strength you
deceived me; in my weakness you mock me. You have burned my brain,
blistered my body, blasted my hopes, bitten my soul and broken my will.
You have taken my money, destroyed my home, stolen my good name, and
robbed me of every friend I ever had. You killed my mother, slew my
father, sent me out into the world a worthless vagabond, until I find
myself a son without parents, a man without friends, a wanderer without
a home, a human being without sympathy, and a pauper without bread.
Deceiver, mocker, robber, murderer--I hate you! Oh, for one hour of my
old-time strength, that I might slay you! Oh, for one friend and some
power to free me from this slavery!"
The laugh had ceased and the boys stood gazing on him with awe. A
young lady and gentleman had joined the company just as Tom began this
terrible arraignment of his master, and as he ceased, the young lady
stepped up to him and earnestly said: "You have one friend and there is
one power that can break your chains and set you free."
Tom gazed at her a moment and then said:
"Who is my friend?"
"The King is your friend," she answered.
"And pray, who are you?" said Tom.
"One of the King's Daughters," was the reply "and 'In His Name' I tell
you He has power to set you free."
"Free, free did you say? But, you mock me. A girl with as white a
hand and as fair a face as yours, delivered me to my master."
"Then, in the name of the King whose daughter am I, even Jesus Christ
the Lord, let the hand of another girl lead you to Him who came to
break the chains of the captive and set the prisoner free."
Tom looked at the earnest face of the pleading girl, hesitated awhile,
as his lip quivered and the big tears filled his eyes, and then
suddenly lifting the bottle high above his head, he dashed it down on
the pavement, and as it broke into a thousand pieces, he said:
"I'll trust you, I'll trust you, lead me to the King!"
And lead him she did, as always a King's Daughter will lead one who
sorely needs help. His chains were broken, and at twenty-nine years of
age Tom began life over again. He is not the man he might have been,
but no one doubts his loyalty to the King. His place in the prayer
circle is never vacant, and you can always find, him in the ranks of
those whose sworn purpose it is to slay Tom's old master, King Alcohol!
STEVEN LAWRENCE, AMERICAN.
BY BARBARA YECHTON.
Stevie's papa usually wrote his name in the hotel registers as "Edward
H. Lawrence, New York City, U. S. A.," but Stevie always entered
his--and he wouldn't have missed doing it for anything--as "Steven
Lawrence, American."
When Kate and Eva teased him about it, he would say: "Why, anybody
could come from New York--an Englishman or a German or a
Frenchman--without being born there, don't you see? but I'm a real
out-and-out American, born there, and a citizen and everything, and I
just want all these foreigners to know it, 'cause I think America's the
greatest country in the world." Then the little boy would straighten
his slender figure and toss back his curly hair with a great air of
pride, which highly amused his two sisters. But their teasing and
laughter did not trouble Stevie in the least. "Laugh all you like I
don't care," he retorted, one day. "It's my way, and I like it," which
amused the little girls all the more, for, as Eva said, "Everybody knew
Stevie liked his own way, only he never had owned up to it before."
There was something, however, that did trouble the little boy a good
deal: though he was born in New York City, he had no recollection of it
or any other place in America, as his mamma's health had failed, and
the whole family had gone to Europe for her benefit, when Stevie was
little more than a year old. They had traveled about a good deal in
the eight years since then, and Stevie had lived in some famous and
beautiful old cities; but in his estimation no place was equal to his
beloved America, of which Mehitabel Higginson had told him so much, and
to which he longed to get back. I fancy that most American boys and
girls would have enjoyed being where Stevie was at this time, for he
and his papa and mamma, and Kate and Eva, and Mehitabel Higginson, were
living in a large and quite grand-looking house in Venice. The
entrance hall and the wide staircase leading to the next story were
very imposing, the rooms were large, and the walls and high ceilings
covered with elaborate carvings and frescoes; and when Stevie looked
out of the windows or the front door lo! instead of an ordinary street
with paved sidewalks, there were the blue shining waters of the lagoon,
and quaint-shaped gondolas floating at the door-step or gliding swiftly
and gracefully by.
The children thought it great fun to go sight-seeing in a gondola: they
visited the beautiful old Cathedral of St. Mark, and admired the famous
bronze horses which surmount Sansovino's exquisitely carved gates,
sailed up and down the double curved Grand Canal, walked through the
Ducal Palace and across the narrow, ill-lighted Bridge of Sighs--over
which so many unfortunate prisoners had passed never to return--and
peeped into the dark, dismal prison on the other side of the canal.
It was all very novel and interesting, but Stevie told Mehitabel, in
confidence, that he would rather, any day, listen to her reminiscences
of her long-ago school days in her little New England village home, or,
better still, to her stories of George Washington, and the other great
spirits of the Revolutionary period, and of Abraham Lincoln and the men
of his time. Stevie never tired of these stories. He knew Mehitabel's
leisure hour, and curling himself up among the cushions on the settee
beside her tea table, he would say, with his most engaging smile:
"Now's just the time for a story, Hitty; don't you think so? And
please begin right away, won't you, 'cause, you know, I'll have to be
going to bed pretty soon."
He knew most of the stories by heart, corrected Miss Higginson if she
left out or added anything in the telling, and always joined in when
she ended the entertainment with her two stock pieces--"Barbara
Freitchie" and "Paul Revere's Ride," which were great favorites with
him. "Oh, how I would like to be a hero!" he said with a sigh, one
afternoon, just after they had finished reciting "Paul Revere's Ride"
in fine style. Presently he added, thoughtfully: "Do you think, Hitty,
that any one could be a hero and not know it? I suppose Washington and
Paul Revere and all those others just knew every time they did anything
brave."
Hitty wore her hair in short gray curls, on each side of her rather
severe-looking face, and now they bobbed up and down as, she nodded her
head emphatically. "Of course they did," she answered, with
conviction. "You see my grandfather fought in the Revolution, so I
ought to know. But," with an entire change of conversation, "bravery
isn't the only thing in the world for a little boy to think of. He
should try to be nice and polite to everybody; obedient to his mamma
and gentle to his sisters; he shouldn't love to have his own way and go
ordering people about. I don't think," with sudden assurance, "you'd
have found Washington or Paul Revere or Lincoln behaving that way."
"Pooh! that's all you know about it," cried Stevie, ungratefully,
slipping down from his nest among the cushions; he did not relish the
personal tone the conversation had taken. "Didn't Washington order his
troops about? And anyway, Kate's just as 'ordering' as I am, and you
never speak to her about it." Then, before the old housekeeper could
answer, he ran out of the room.
You see that was Stevie's great fault; he was a dear, warm-hearted
little fellow, but he did love to have his own way, and often this made
him very rude and impatient--what they called "ordering"--to his
sisters, and Hitty and the servants, and even disobedient to his mamma.
Stevie's mamma was very much troubled about this, for she dearly loved
her little son, and she saw plainly that as the days went on instead of
Stevie's getting the upper hand of his fault, his fault was getting the
upper hand of him. So one day she and papa had a long, serious talk
about Stevie, and then papa and Stevie had a long, serious talk about
the fault. I shall not tell all that passed between them, for papa had
to do some plain speaking that hurt Stevie's feelings very much, and
his little pocket-handkerchief was quite damp long before the interview
was over.
Papa so seldom found fault that what he said now made a great
impression on the little boy. "I didn't know I was so horrid, papa,"
he said, earnestly; "I really don't mean to be, but you see people are
so trying sometimes, and then it seems as if I just have to say things.
You don't know how hard it is to keep from saying them."
"Oh, yes, I do," said Mr. Lawrence, with a nod of his head; "but you
are getting to be a big boy now, Stevie, and if you expect to be a
soldier one of these days--as you say you do--you must begin to control
yourself now, or you'll never be able to control your men by and by.
And besides, you are bringing discredit on your beloved country by such
behavior."
Stevie looked up with wide-open, astonished eyes. "Why, papa!" he said.
"I heard you tell Guiseppi the other day," went on his papa, "that all
Americans were nice. Do you expect him to believe that, when you, the
only little American boy he knows, speak so rudely to him, and he hears
you ordering your sisters about as you do?"
Stevie hung his head without a word, but his cheeks got very red.
"You know, Stevie," said Mr. Lawrence, "great honors always bring great
responsibilities with them. You are a Christian and an American--two
great honors; and you mustn't shirk the responsibility to be courteous
and noble and kind, which they entail. Even our dear Lord Christ
pleased not Himself, you know; don't you suppose it grieves Him to see
His little follower flying into rages because he can't have his own
way? And can you possibly imagine Washington or Lincoln ordering
people about as you like to do?"
There was a moment's silence; then Stevie straightened himself up and
poked his hands deep down in his pockets. "Papa," he said, tossing
back his yellow curls, a look of determination on his little fair face,
"I'll not shirk my 'sponsibilities. I'm just going to try with all my
might to be a better boy."
"Good for you, Stevie!" cried papa, kissing him warmly. "I know
mamma'll be glad, and I'm sure you'll be a much pleasanter boy to live
with. But you must ask God to help you, or you'll never succeed, son;
and besides, you've got to keep a tight watch on yourself all the time,
you know."
"Yes, I s'pose so," agreed Stevie, with a little sigh, "'cause feelings
are such hard things to manage; and, papa, please don't tell Kate and
Eva, or Hitty." Papa nodded, and then they went to tell mamma the
result of the talk.
Stevie did "try with all his might" for the next few days, and with
such good results as to astonish all but his papa and mamma, who, as
you know, were in the secret. Eva confided to Kate that she thought
Stevie was certainly like "the little girl with the curl," for if when
he was "bad he was horrid," "when he was good he was very, very good;"
and Mehitabel watched him closely, and hoped "he wasn't sickening for
measles or Italian fever."
How long this unusual state of affairs would have lasted under usual
circumstances is uncertain; but about a week after Stevie's talk with
his papa, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence were called suddenly to Naples on
urgent business, and the children were left in Venice in the
housekeeper's care. Mamma impressed upon her little son and daughters
that they must be very good children and obey Mehitabel just as they
would her; and when they were going, papa said to Stevie: "Son, I want
you to look after the girls and Mehitabel, and take care of them while
I am away. If anything happens, try to act as you think I would if I
were here."
"All right, I'll take good care of 'em," Stevie answered, feeling very
proud to have papa say this before everybody, and winked hard to
prevent the tears, that would come, from falling. Then, as the gondola
glided from the door, papa leaned over the side and waved his hand.
"Don't forget the responsibilities, Steve," he called out.
"I won't forget--sure," returned Stevie, waving back; but when Kate
asked what papa meant, he answered: "It's just something between papa
and me--nothing 'bout you," with such a mysterious air that of course
Kate immediately suspected a secret and entreated to be told. This
Stevie flatly refused to do, and they were on the verge of a quarrel
when Mehitabel's voice was heard calling them to come help her choose a
dessert for their five-o'clock dinner.
Stevie found the next few days what he called "very trying." You see,
by virtue of what his papa had said he considered himself the head of
the family, and his feelings were continually ruffled by Mehitabel's
decided way of settling things without regard to his opinion. The
mornings were the hardest of all, when, in their mother's absence, the
children recited their lessons to Miss Higginson. Mehitabel had her
own ideas about the law and order that should be maintained, and
Stevie's indignant protests were quite wasted on her.
"You may do as you please when your pa and ma are home"--she said very
decidedly one morning, when Kate and Stevie told her that their mamma
never expected them to stand through all the lessons nor to repeat
every word as it was in the book--"but when I'm head of the family
you've got to do things my way, and I want every word of that lesson."
"You're just as cross as you can be," fumed Kate, flouncing herself
into a chair.
"And anyway you're not the head of the family one bit," commenced
Stevie, warmly tossing back his curls and getting very red in the face.
"Papa said I--"
"Oh, here's a gondola stopped at our door," broke in Eva, who, taking
advantage of Miss Higginson's attention being occupied elsewhere, was
looking out of the window. "There's a boy in it lying down--a big boy.
Oh, a man's just got out and--yes, they're bringing the boy in here!
"Sakes alive!" cried Mehitabel, dropping Stevie's book on the floor and
starting for the door. "Can it possibly be Mr. Joseph and Dave?"
"Uncle Joe and Dave!" "Hurrah!" exclaimed Kate and Stevie in the same
breath; and Eva having scrambled down from the window, the three
children collected at the head of the stairs to watch, with breathless
interest, the procession which came slowly up.
The tall man on the right was their Uncle Joe Lawrence--Kate and Eva
and Stevie remembered him at once, for he had visited their parents
several times since they had been in Europe; and the bright-eyed,
pale-faced boy who lay huddled up in the chair which he and Guiseppi
carried between them must be their Cousin Dave, of whom they had heard
so much. Poor Dave! he had fallen from a tree last summer, and struck
his back, and the concussion had caused paralysis of the lower part of
the spine, so that he could not walk a step, and might not for years,
though the doctors gave hope that he would eventually recover the use
of his legs. The children gazed at him with the deepest interest and
sympathy, and they were perfectly astonished when, as the chair passed
them, Dave turned his head, and, in answer to their smiling greetings,
deliberately made a frightful face at them!
"Isn't he the rudest!" gasped Eva, as the procession--Miss Higginson
bringing up the rear--disappeared behind the doors of the guest room;
while Kate and Stevie were, for once in their lives, too amazed to be
able to express their feelings.
After what seemed a long time to the children, Mehitabel rejoined them.
"I am in a pucker," she said, sinking into a chair. Her curls were
disarranged, and her spectacles were pushed up on her forehead; she
looked worried. "And there isn't a creature to turn to for advice;
that Italian in the kitchen doesn't speak a blessed word of English,
and Guiseppi's not much better. He keeps saying, 'Si signorina,' and
wagging his head like a Chinese mandarin, until he fairly makes me
dizzy, and I know all the time he doesn't understand half I'm saying."
Miss Higginson paused to take breath, then, feeling the positive
necessity of unburdening herself further, continued her tale of woe:
"Here's your Uncle Joseph obliged to go right on to Paris within the
hour, and here's Dave to remain here till his pa returns, which mayn't
be for weeks. And he requires constant care, mansage (she meant
massage) treatment and everything--and just as domineering and
imperdent; Stevie's bad enough, but Dave goes ahead of him. And, to
make matters worse, here comes a letter from your pa saying he and your
ma have met with old friends at Naples, and not to expect 'em home
until we see them. Anyway, I'd made up my mind not to shorten their
holiday, 'less it was a matter of life and death.
"Now, what I want to know is this: who is going to wait on that sick
boy from morning to night? And that's what he'll have to have for he
can't stir off his couch, can't even sit up, and wanting something
every five minutes. I'm sure I can't keep the house, and see to the
servants, and take care of you children, and besides wait on that
exacting young one. 'Tain't in human nature to do it--anyway, 'tain't
in me. And Dave's temper's at the bottom of the whole thing; he won't
have Guiseppi or any other Italian I could get, and he's just worn out
the patience of his French vally till he got disgusted and wouldn't put
up with it any longer for love nor money. His father's got to go, and
who is to take care of that boy?"
Mehitabel's voice actually quivered. The children had never seen her
so moved; the differences of the morning were all forgotten, and they
crowded about her, their little faces full of loving sympathy. "I wish
I could help you, Hitty," said Kate, patting the old housekeeper's
hand. "Is mansage treatment a kind of medicine 'cause if it is I might
give it to Dave--you know I drop mamma's medicine for her sometimes."
"No, child, mansage is a certain way of rubbing the body, and it needs
more strength and skill than you've got. But that I can manage, I
think; Guiseppi knows a man that we can get to come and mansage Dave
every morning. And I could sleep in the room next to him, and look
after him during the night; but it's some one to be with him in the day
that I want most."
Stevie had listened to Mehitabel's story with a very thoughtful
expression on his face; now he said suddenly, and very persuasively: "I
could take care of Dave through the day, Hitty--I wish you'd let me."
"You!" cried Miss Higginson, in surprise. "Why, you wouldn't be in
that room five minutes before you two would be squabbling."
"No, we wouldn't; I'm sure we wouldn't," persisted the little boy.
"Just you try me."
"But, Stevie, you'd get very tired being shut up in the room with that
ill-tempered boy, all day long--I know him of old--he'd try the
patience of a saint. You'd have no gondola rides, no fun with your
sisters, no play time at all, and no thanks for your pains either. And
I'm not sure your pa'd like to have you do it."
"I don't mind one bit about the fun and all that," said Stevie,
decidedly; "and indeed, Hitty, I don't think papa'd object. You see,
he told me the last thing, if anything happened while he was away I was
to act just as he would do if he were here; now, you know, if he were
here he'd just take care of Dave, himself--wouldn't he? Well, then, as
he isn't here, I ought to do it--see? And really I'd like to."
"Why not let him try it anyhow, Hitty?" pleaded the little girls. And
as she really saw no other way out of the difficulty, Mehitabel
reluctantly consented, with the proviso that she should sit with Dave
for an hour every afternoon while Stevie went for a gondola sail.
Finally matters were arranged, and after a very short visit Mr. Joseph
Lawrence started for Paris, leaving Dave in Venice, and the children
went in to make their cousin's acquaintance.
What Mehitabel said was certainly true--Dave was a very trying boy.
Though possessing naturally some good qualities, he had been so humored
and indulged that his own will had become his law; he loved to tease,
and hated to be thwarted in the slightest degree, and this made him
often very exacting and tyrannical. Miss Higginson called him a "most
exasperating boy," and she wasn't far wrong. He teased Kate and Eva so
much that they hated to go into his room, or even in the gondola when
he took, now and then, an airing. But, to everybody's surprise, he and
Stevie got on better than was expected. Part of the secret of this lay
in the fact that Dave had lived in America all his life--had just come
from there, and was able to give Stevie long and glowing accounts of
that country and everything in it--as seen from the other boy's
standpoint. Stevie's rapt attention and implicit faith in him
flattered Dave, and beside, though he wouldn't have acknowledged it for
the world, he found the little fellow's willing ministrations very much
pleasanter than those of the French valet, whose patience he had soon
exhausted. And Stevie felt so sorry for the boy who had dearly loved
to run and leap and climb, and who now lay so helpless that he could
not even sit up for five minutes. Dave's heart was very sore over it
sometimes--once or twice he had let Stevie see it; and then he had no
dear loving mother as Stevie had, and his papa had never talked to him
as Stevie's papa did to his little boy. So Stevie tried with all the
strength of his brave, tender little heart to be patient with his
cousin.
But, as Mehitabel would say, "human nature is human nature;" they both
had quick tempers and strong wills; and for all Stevie's good
intentions, many a lively quarrel took place in the guest room, of
which they both fancied the old housekeeper knew nothing. She had
threatened that if Dave "abused" Stevie she would separate the boys at
once, even if she had to mount guard over the invalid herself; so with
Spartan-like fortitude both kept their grievances to themselves--Dave
because he disliked and was a little afraid of Miss Higginson, whom he
had nicknamed the "dragon," and Stevie because he had really grown very
fond of Dave, and knew how utterly dependent he was on him. But one
day Stevie completely lost his temper and got so angry that he declared
to himself he'd "just give up the whole thing."
Stevie had felt a little cross himself that morning, and Dave had been
unbearable; the consequence was the most serious quarrel they had ever
had. In a fit of violent rage Dave threw everything he could lay hands
on at Stevie--books, cushions, and last a pretty paper-weight. The
books and cushions Stevie dodged, but the paper-weight hit him on the
shin, a sharp enough blow to bring tears to his eyes and the angry
blood to his cheeks. Catching up a cushion that lay near, he sent it
whizzing at Dave, and had the satisfaction of seeing it hit his cousin
full in the face; then, before Dave could retaliate, he slipped into
the hall and slammed the door of the guest room.
Out in the hall he almost danced with rage. "I'll tell Hitty," he
stormed; "I won't wait on him and do things for him any longer. He's
the worst-tempered boy in the whole world. I just won't have another
thing to do with him! I'll go and tell her so."
Before he got half way to Mehitabel, however, he changed his mind, and
stealing softly back, sat on the top step of the stairs, just outside
Dave's room, to wait till Dave should call him, to make up, as had
happened more than once before. Stevie determined he wouldn't go in
of his own accord--he said Dave had been "too contemptibly mean." So
he sat there with a very obstinate look on his little face, his elbows
on his knees and his chin in his palms, staring at the patch of blue
sky which was visible through the hall window nearest him.
But somehow, after a while Stevie's anger began to cool, and he began
to feel sorry for Dave, and to wonder if the cushion had hurt him--a
corner of it might have struck his eye! The paper-weight had hurt
quite a good deal; but then he could get out of the way of such things,
while Dave couldn't dodge, he had to lie there and take what Stevie
threw. Poor Dave! and he might lie in that helpless way for years
yet--the doctors had said perhaps by the time he was twenty-one he
might be able to walk. What a long time to have to wait! Poor Dave!
Stevie wondered if he would behave better than Dave if he were twelve
years old and as helpless as his cousin. Mehitabel said they were both
fond of their own way and loved to order people about; he guessed all
boys loved their own way, whether they were nine or twelve years old.
And then suddenly there came to Stevie the remembrance of a picture
that hung in his mamma's room. It was a print of a famous painting,
and it represented a Boy of twelve, with a bright, eager, beautiful
face, standing among grave, dark-browed, white-robed men. Mamma and
Stevie had often talked about the Boy there pictured, and Stevie knew
that He had not loved His own way, for He "pleased not Himself." He
wouldn't have quarreled with Dave! He had been a real Boy, too; He
knew just what other boys had to go through, all their trials and
temptations, and mamma had said over and over that she knew He just
loved to help those other boys to be good and unselfish and patient.
Then He must know all about poor Dave's having to lie helpless all the
time. A wistful look came into Stevie's eyes. Oh, if Jesus were only
on earth now, he thought, how quickly they would all take Dave to Him
to be healed! Or perhaps He would come to the sick boy, as He did to
some of those others in the Bible. Stevie pictured to himself the
tall, gracious figure, clad in long, trailing robes, the holy face, the
tender eyes. He would lay His hand on Dave and say: "Son"--Stevie
thought that was such a beautiful word--"Son, rise up and walk." And
immediately Dave would spring to his feet, well and strong. And then
after that, of course, they--for he, too, would be present--would be so
good and kind and patient that they wouldn't think of quarreling and
throwing things at each other.
Well, that was out of the question--Stevie sighed heavily--Jesus was in
heaven now, and He didn't do those miracles any more; but--since He had
been a Boy Himself He must know just how hard it was for some
boys--like Dave and himself, for instance--to be good; perhaps He would
help them if they asked Him. Stevie had his doubts whether Dave would
ask; he made fun of Stevie whenever he said anything of that
kind--which wasn't often; but he (Stevie) could ask for both, and
particularly that Jesus would put it into Dave's heart to make up this
quarrel--he did so hate to be the first to give in.
Then, all at once, the eyes that were staring so steadily up at the
blue sky grew very tender, and Stevie's lips moved.
What he said I do not know; but after that he sprang up and ran quickly
into Dave's room, up to his couch. "Say, Dave," he remarked, in the
most off-hand way, "I'll fix up your pillows, then you tell me all
about that base-ball team you used to belong to; you said you
would--you know, the one that knocked spots out of those other fellers."
Dave lay with his head turned to the wall, his eyes closed; but as
Stevie spoke he opened them and looked up, a bright smile flashing over
his pale face. "All right, sir, I'm your man," he answered, readily.
"Pick up the things round the room first, so the 'dragon' won't know
we've had a fight, and then I'll begin. And--I say, Stevie--I--I'm
going to turn over a new leaf--sure, and the next time I act as I did
this morning just hit me on the head, will you? I'll deserve it."
Which from Dave was a full, ample, and most honorable apology, and as
such Stevie took it.
A few days later Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence returned home, much to the
satisfaction and happiness of the children, who had, as Eva said, "lots
and lots" to tell them. Then when the three older folks were alone
together, Miss Higginson told her story. "I've watched 'em close, and
seen and heard more than those boys ever dreamed I did," she finished
up, "and I say that our Stevie's a hero--though he doesn't know it.
What he's stood with that Dave can't be told, and never a word of
complaint out of him. And, do you know, I really think he's improved
Dave as well as himself in the matter of temper."
"A Christian and an American," Mr. Lawrence said, with a glad thrill in
his voice, smiling over at Stevie's mamma, whose shining eyes smiled
back at him. "Thank God, our boy is rising to his responsibilities.
But don't let him know he's done anything wonderful, Hitty."
"I'll not tell him," promised the old housekeeper. "But the good Book
tells us, 'He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a
city;' and seeing that's so, America's got no call to be ashamed of
Stevie, for though he's not an angel by any means, yet in his way he's
a hero as sure as was ever George Washington or Paul Revere, or my
name's not Mehitabel Higginson!"