rags by your beautiful dress," said Mrs. Stuart, with a sigh, "and
Emma, dear, mother is sometimes afraid that you are covering a sadly
soiled heart with a pretty body, and thinking, like poor foolish
Margery, that it is all right, because the soil is covered from human
eyes."
══════════
FLORENCE AT HOME.
IT was Sabbath morning, and she was standing before the glass, tying
the ends of her lovely, new sash; and Carrie leaned on her elbows and
watched her for a minute, then looked at nothing, and wished that
she was a little more like Florence. She was pretty, and bright, and
everybody admired her. This very morning she was going to do something
so nice! In the next square was a new family, just moved in; Florence
had already become acquainted with Weston, the fifteen-year-old son,
and invited him to attend Sabbath-school, and he had laughed, and
declared that he didn't go to Sunday-school very often; but at last had
agreed to call, and be shown the way to the church by Florence.
"I don't believe they are people who go to church much," Florence
had said, as she drew on her long mitts with a pleased air, "but I
shouldn't be surprised if I could get him in the habit of going."
And then Carrie had sighed, and wished that she could do anything; here
she had to stay poked in the house this beautiful day, because she had
a sore throat; she was always getting sore throats.
"That is all I can do," she told herself drearily, "get a sore throat,
and a swelled nose, and red eyes, and stay in the house."
Just then the deer-bell rang, and Master Weston's voice was heard in
the hall.
Then was Florence in a flutter. "Dear me! There he is, and it is time
we were off. Where is my handkerchief? Carrie, haven't you seen my
handkerchief? You certainly must have taken it; I laid it right here.
I 'do wish' you would let my things alone! Mamma, have you seen my
Quarterly? I thought it was on the table; where 'can' it be! Oh, dear
me, mamma, I 'should' think you might help me find it. I 'hate' to
be late. Oh, never mind my money, I can take it next Sunday; mamma,
'please' don't keep me waiting to get it; I shan't go at all, if I have
to wait much longer. Carrie Marshall, I know you tucked my handkerchief
somewhere. Mamma, 'won't you please' let me go this minute? You seem to
just want to make me late. I don't care if my hair is too low down; it
is just the way all the girls wear it. I wouldn't have it flying around
my face in the wild way that Carrie does, for 'anything.' Carrie, hand
me that book, quick! I shall go distracted!"
Then I rejoice to tell you that she went out of the room, tripped down
the stairs, and was off.
Her invalid mother drew a relieved sigh. "I wish Florence were not such
an excitable girl," she said, as she moved about picking up many things
that the young miss in her hurry had sent flying hither and thither.
"If she were a little more like you, dear, in some things, I should be
glad."
Meantime, Florence was tripping along beside her new friend, as bright
as the morning itself. Very anxious she was to be a help to him. She
was a Christian girl, and wanted to do good. It was not by any means
"make believe." She told him about their nice Sunday-school, what
a pleasant superintendent they had, and what a "perfectly splendid
teacher;" she told him about the young people's prayer-meeting, and
asked him to attend; and with great sweetness and skill brought her
question around, until she fairly asked him if he were a Christian. And
said, earnestly, "I am so sorry," when he told her "no."
Then she said a few sweet, earnest words, that ought to have done him
good, and she wondered in her heart why it was that he was simply
polite in return, showing not the slightest interest in the subject.
If she could have looked into "his" heart, she would have found just
this: "I wonder what this dainty little miss in her pretty hat, and her
frizzes would say if she knew I waited for her in the hall, while she
left her room door open, and talked to her mother and 'Carrie'—whoever
she is. The talk I heard then, and the talk I'm hearing now, don't seem
to match. How am I to know which she means?"
Poor Florence! Her thoughtless, disrespectful words at home, that
morning, had spoiled the influence of her work abroad! And the worst
of it was, she was so used to being careless in this matter, that she
didn't suspect it.
══════════
MINNIE LEE AND HER KITTEN.
TRAVELLING from Attica to Rochester in New York, some years since,
I changed cars at Avon. A moment after entering the car, a lady and
little girl came in and took the seat directly in front of me. The
child's face was radiant with joy, as she frequently raised the cover
of a little basket on her arm and looked curiously into it. Her sweet
little face had no wrinkles of care or unrest.
As I contemplated it, memories of childhood joys and days made me
feel like a child again. My own curiosity was excited by her constant
looking, and I leaned forward to ascertain the cause of so much
happiness.
The little girl, with the quick intuition of childhood, raised the
cover of her basket and exposed to view a kitten. I said, "that is a
'beautiful kitten;' what is its name?"
"Daisy," was her quick reply. "I wish you would give me Daisy," I said,
gently.
"Oh! 'No, sir;' I can't give you Daisy—I love Dairy so much."
"But, Minnie, I 'want' Daisy, and I will give you a dollar for her."
"Oh! No, sir, I can't sell Daisy."
"Do you love candy, Minnie?"
"Yes, sir, I guess I do."
"Well, then, you can get your basket almost full of candy for a dollar."
"Oh, sir, I love Daisy, more than I do money or candy."
[Illustration]
She was so simple and happy, I was confident she had been taught, in
the Sunday-school and at home, to love the Saviour. I then asked her if
she went to Sunday-school.
"Yes, sir; I go to Sunday-school always."
"Well, Minnie, do you love the dear Saviour?"
"Why, 'yes, sir; I guess I do. Do you love Jesus?'" was her quick
retort.
"Yes, my darling, I do, and I'm so glad to know you love the dear
Saviour. He is our best Friend; he will go with us if we will let him,
all through life, and love us, and keep us, and save us. By-and-by
we'll go where Jesus is, and then sin will not hart us any more."
Her little face grew bright with joy, and the light kindled in her
eyes. Looking at me steadfastly for a little while, she lifted her
basket, and with the sweetest voice said, "Sir! 'You may have Daisy;
you may have Daisy.'"
For a moment I hardly knew what reply to make, but said, "No, my
darling, I can't take Daisy from you."
The tear came to her eye, as she said, "Why won't you take Daisy?"
"Because you love Daisy more, and will take better care of her than I
can."
I trust this beautiful lesson will not be forgotten—at least by the
writer. Neither money nor candy could induce the child to give up
her kitten; but because I loved her dear Saviour, she loved me more
than her kitten, and was willing to give up her idol to please a
friend of her Saviour. The atmosphere of heaven is love. Love is the
vitalizing power which ripens the soul for heaven. Pride, and anger,
and self-will, cannot live where love is found. Love is unselfish. "God
is love."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ONLY A SPARK.
IT was to be a tableau party, and among other tableaux, there was
to be a bridal scene. Pretty Alice Knowlton had been chosen for the
bride, because every one said she had the sweetest face of any of the
girls, and looked "perfectly lovely" dressed in white. She did look
lovely, with her long bridal veil, and her real orange blossoms from
Mr. Silover's conservatory, and all of the bridesmaids, as well as Mary
Lewis, who was waiting maid in general, stood around her, and planned
and admired, and made little changes here and there to add to the
effect.
"We must hurry, girls," one of them had just said. "The people are
getting impatient down-stairs, I hear them in the halls asking when we
'are' to have another scene."
Just then came Phebe, the little colored errand girl, to say that Mrs.
Lewis said, that the bridal party must stand at the left of the stage
instead of the right, because the wind blew the curtains right against
the gas light when the door was opened on the right.
"Then we will have to tell the gentleman," said Mary Lewis, "that will
change their position entirely; let's tell Charlie Burns, and he will
arrange it with the others; run Phebe, and tell Mr. Burns that the
ladies want to see him a minute in the south room."
"Botheration!" said gentlemanly Charlie when he received the message.
"What do they want now? They've been planning long enough to be really
and truly married nine times over. I wonder if I shall have to throw
away this cigar? It is one of the best I ever tried."
"Take it along with you, Charlie, they only want to ask some question,
and you can come directly back; I wouldn't sacrifice a good cigar to
one of their whims."
That was the advice of one of the groomsmen, and Charlie following it,
crossed the hall from the gentlemen's dressing-room, puffing a cloud of
smoke into Phebe's face. He held the cigar in his hand, while he talked
with the ladies, and went to puffing again, the moment the door closed
after him.
"Ugh!" said the pretty bride, shuddering. "I wouldn't marry Charlie
Burns in real earnest for anything; I hate cigar-smoke."
Well she might! How was it done? Whose fault was it? Is there anybody
who can ever give a careful account of the very beginnings of an
accident? There was a curious smell, a sudden blaze, a scream from
Phebe who had stooped to shake out the train of the bridal dress,
a succession of fearful screams that rang through the house, and
brought crowds of guests, as well as the gentlemen performers from
the dressing-room, and the only thing about it all that was painfully
certain, was that the pretty bride was cruelly burned.
It was all talked over a great many times after that; what a sad thing
it was that she should have put her beautiful arms into the blaze to
try to crush it out, and burned them so that they were shrivelled and
useless, and that her limbs were so burned that she could never walk
again.
Then people would say in whispers,—"They don't 'know' of course, but
it must have been a spark from Charlie Burns' cigar, it couldn't have
happened any other way, for she wasn't standing near the gas light, and
he was there but a minute before, with a lighted cigar in his hand;
they say poor Charlie feels awfully: he has never smoked a cigar since."
Oh dear me! Small good will that do pretty Alice Knowlton. If he had
"only" stopped before he smoked that one.
══════════
ROBERT HALL.
IT was a rainy day, and the boys gathered in the hall for their recess
talk; I don't know but that was why they assured Robert Hall that it
was his turn.
"I spent every bit of my vacation in Cooperstown," he said, stretching
himself out on the long bench that was under the west windows.
"Where's Cooperstown?" asked Horace Brooks. "Any of your ancestors own
the town, Cooper?"
"Not that I know of," said Eugene; "but I know where it is; nice little
town at the head of Otsego lake; there's a one-horse kind of a railroad
to take you to it, that connects with the Albany and Susquehanna, or
you can go by the Delaware and Lackawanna, as far as Richfield Springs,
then take an old-fashioned ride, in a four-horse stage coach, to the
head of the lake, and after that as pretty a ride on a lake as can be
had anywhere in the United States or out of them, I guess."
"Look here," said Robert Hall, good-humoredly, "am I telling this
story, or are you?"
"I was only giving those dumbheads your bearings, my boy; go ahead."
"Well, I went on the one-horse train; that's a good name for it, I
declare; a stupider, slower, dustier ride I never took in my life, and
I've travelled some; but as you say, the town is lovely when you get
there. Queer old town, made up of hotels, mostly; great buildings,
large enough, each one of them, to accommodate all the inhabitants as
boarders; and full to overflowing, summers."
"What takes people there?" asked Horace Brooks. "Springs?"
"Not a spring; the springs are, as Eugene told you, nine miles away;
it's the beauty, I suppose. Men who have travelled say you won't find
any better scenery even up the Clyde, or on the Rhine. The lake is
just like a sheet of glass, and all along it on either side, lovely
landscapes. I don't know much about that sort of thing myself; but my
brother paints, you know, and he just raved over it all the time; said
it was the finest place for sketching he had found in this country.
"I know the echoes are fine. One night we went out, a party of us, as
late as midnight, when the town was still, and rowed up the lake a
couple of miles, and then we shouted at the echoes, and the old fellows
took up our remarks and repeated them seven times!"
"Whew!" said George Dunlap. "That's a very large story."
"That's just as true as I live," said Robert Hall, rising on one elbow,
earnestly. "I heard them; oh, as plainly as you hear me now. We shouted
'Natty Bumppo!' and back they yelled 'Natty Bumppo!'
"Then another fellow, from away up among the rocks on the other side
took it up and shouted 'Natty Bumppo!' And so they kept it going, until
we had seven distinct voices. I never heard anything like it."
"Where did you get such an outlandish name to call?" asked one of the
boys.
[Illustration]
"Oh, that's one of Cooper's names, you know; in some of his books; 'he'
is the man who has made Cooperstown famous, I suppose. Wherever you go
through the town, people are pointing out to you the spot where such
a scene was laid, and telling you the incident that suggested such
and such a character; and up in their cemetery,—they have a lovely
cemetery, terraced up from the lake side, my brother said it was a
miniature Greenwood, as fine according to its size, as that,—well there
is a statue, just near the entrance, of Leather Stocking and his dog
and gun; that's Natty Bumppo. It is erected in memory of Cooper, I
suppose; thought 'he' isn't buried there."
"Who's Cooper?" asked Charlie Smythe.
"Well, now, my boy, a fellow as well read in history as you are, ought
to know something about him. J. Fenimore Cooper, at your service; born
in Burlington, New Jersey, in 1789. Brought up in the wild woods around
this same Otsego lake, entered Yale college when he was thirteen,
entered the United States Navy at sixteen, resigned his commission, and
married when he was twenty-two or so, and went to writing books. You
see a fellow who visits Cooperstown has to study up on James Fenimore
Cooper."
"Was he a historian?"
"No, a novelist. Why, he wrote thirty-three novels. It is said he is
the most popular writer who has ever lived; and his books have been
translated into about all the languages in Europe. He used to write sea
stories, splendid ones; I read some of them when I was in Cooperstown;
and his Natty Bumppo is just a splendid character.
"We went to Cooper's grave in the old cemetery beside the Episcopal
church. The people are very proud of Cooper; they talk about him half
the time."
"Where is Cooperstown, anyhow? How far from places that everybody
knows?" This was Charlie Smythe's question.
"Well, it can't be more than a hundred miles or so, from Albany, New
York. I started from Albany in the morning, and reached there about
noon I think. We went to the Cooper House; a great splendid hotel,—full
of boarders. My brother went to sketch. He has some lovely pictures of
Cooperstown; if you'll all come home with me in vacation, I'll show
them to you. 'I' don't know how to describe places. It is a pretty
village, with a lovely lake and very fine scenery, and that is all I
can tell you about it."
"You've told us several things," chorused the boys.
"Yes, and given us an invitation besides," laughed George Dunlap. "I
think you've come out ahead, Hall."
"There's one thing I want to know," said Charlie in his slow,
meditative way; "does it make people better to read Cooper's novels?"
"I don't know, I am sure," said Robert Hall; "it makes them 'wiser,' I
guess; but about the better, I'm not so sure."
"Well," said Charlie, "if I had written thirty-three books, and then
died, and people were reading them yet, I should want them to make
folks 'better,' as well as wiser."
"That boy Charlie will write books yet, 'I' believe," said Horace, as
they went into the schoolroom; "and I shouldn't wonder if it would make
folks better to read them."
A LETTER FROM BIRD-LAND.
DEAR RAY:—Do you want a letter all about birds? I have seen so many
kinds of birds to-day, and such beautiful ones! Do you remember the
fountain in the side yard? It has been made larger, and has stones
put all around the edge, and mosses and ferns and pots of flowers are
growing everywhere about it.
[Illustration]
Every morning the birds come there to bathe; after their bath, they fly
up on the trees, and pay their bills by singing sweetest songs. Then
they fly away with the news. I think they say to all their friends,
"Did you know that, down there in that grass, there is a lovely
fountain with everything beautiful around it, and don't you think it is
made on purpose for us to take baths in every day?" So the good news
spread, and all the birds come flying to the fountain.
[Illustration]
There has been a great time among the birds this spring. Some of them
must have such large families that they can't take care of them all.
The other day I was out walking in the yard, and I saw a beautiful
little bird, too young to fly. I was afraid some cat would get it, so I
took it in my hands and brought it home. I put it in a bird-cage, and
what do you think it ate? Why, worms! I had to dig worms, and put them
down its throat. It seemed never to get enough.
Grandma said, "Oh, I wouldn't keep it in a cage; it was made to be
free."
[Illustration]
I thought so too, so I opened the cage door and let it go. It hopped
around on the grass and seemed very happy. All day I watched that no
cat came near it.
[Illustration]
I had help, too, in taking care of it; every little while a bird would
come hopping down, and give it something to eat. Sometimes a robin
would come, then a little sparrow, and now and then a chippy-bird.
They all seemed to be very kind to it. At last the dark night came,
and I could see my little birdie no longer; but I remembered it was
said, "Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Heavenly Father
knoweth it."
[Illustration]
The next morning there was great commotion among the birds; they all
came to see about something that troubled them. I went, too; and don't
you think my poor little birdie had been taken care of all night, and
hopped out in the morning to see about her breakfast, but had been so
unfortunate as to go near an old hen who had a dozen little chicks.
[Illustration]
The hen knew the birdie was no child of hers, so she began to peck her,
and would soon have killed her if I had not appeared. I rescued the
poor trembling little thing, put her on a soft bed, and took care of
her all day; but at night she died,—the naughty old hen had broken her
leg.
[Illustration]
I was glad it was a hen who had done the mischief, instead of some
little boy to whom God had given a soul, and a mind that could
understand what he has said about the birds. But I have heard of little
boys who would break up birds' nests, and destroy little families of
birds.
[Illustration]
Some day I am going to pick out and put together all that God has said
in the Bible about birds; for God cares for them.
Your loving auntie,
"JEWEL."
[Illustration: WAITING]
HARVEY IN TROUBLE.
EMILY HARPER went through the hall singing:
"'And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down, and—'
"What on 'earth' is the matter?"
She did not "sing" that last, but said it in a wondering and dismayed
tone, as she suddenly opened the library door, and found her brother
Harvey lying flat on his face, in a perfect storm of tears.
Harvey "crying," was something new under the sun; he hardly ever
stopped whistling long enough to cry.
He wasn't very gracious to Emily. "Keep away," he said, poking out his
elbows as though he meant to push her off.
But she wasn't easily pushed off; she shut the library door, and went
down on her knees beside the heap on the floor, and said in the most
coaxing of sisterly tones, "Tell me all about it, Harvey."
And Harvey told; he couldn't help it. It was bad enough. At twenty
minutes of three he had started, a merry, whistling boy, for the
post-office, to mail a letter for his father,—an important letter; his
father had called after him that if it failed to reach that mail, there
would be more than a hundred dollars' loss.
"And he said he would trust me," sobbed poor Harvey.
Well, he knew the mail did not close until fifteen minutes after three,
and he knew he could reach the office in five minutes; so he laughed at
the idea of failing, and told his father it should be there "sure."
[Illustration]
But going around the square, he met Joe Bailey, who told him that their
folks had brought home a parrot with them from the city; the cutest
fellow, who could whistle, and sing, and say, "Hush up!" And do ever
so many funny things, and he had gone down the left side of the square
instead of the right, because he knew it would make no difference in
the time, and had stopped just about two minutes to look at the parrot.
"And missed the mail!" exclaimed Emily in a horrified tone.
"No, I didn't miss the mail, either," said poor Harvey, very crossly;
he felt so bad, he thought he couldn't help being cross. "Keep still,
can't you? 'I'm' telling this story; I didn't forget about the letter
at all. I didn't stay three minutes; but there came a big wind along,
and blew off my hat, and I had to climb the picket fence to get it,
and then I made for the post-office as fast as I could; and when I got
there, the letter was gone."
Then he told how he went back, and searched all the way, and searched
the yard at Bailey's, and Joe searched, and the parrot searched, or
seemed to, but no letter could be found.
"What did father say?" Emily asked, after a moment of dismayed silence.
"That is the worst of it," Harvey said, sitting up with dry eyes,
feeling too miserable to shed any more tears, "I haven't told him a
word about it; I don't see any use in telling; the letter is gone, and
he can't find it, for I looked 'everywhere;' and the mail is gone,
he can't send another, and I might just as well keep still, and not
trouble him, to-night at least."
Then Emily found her usual busy tongue. "O, Harvey, that won't do
at all; maybe he could write another by that very early mail in the
morning, that would help some; or he might telegraph, or send somebody
on the train; men know how to do ever so many things. You ought to tell
father right away. He could do something, I'm sure; and you've 'got' to
tell him some time; I should think you would want it over."
One word in this sentence carried weight with it. Harvey rose up, his
face pale. "I forgot all about the telegraph," he said, "I must tell
him right away."
Now, some people might suppose Mr. Harper was a very fierce man, since
his son so dreaded to tell him of the accident; but the truth was, if
there had been nothing but a whipping to dread, Harvey would not have
wasted so much time nor so many tears. His father was the kindest, most
patient of men, and Harvey so loved and respected him, that to bring
trouble, by his carelessness, on that good father, was something that
he could hardly bear to think of. Besides, they were not rich, and a
hundred dollars was a good deal of money for them to lose.
Mr. Harper had come home from the office, and was in his room, a
grave-faced father; he listened quietly and sadly to Harvey's eager
story, but before it was half through, he put an arm tenderly around
the boy, and when it was finished, leaned over and kissed him.
"Thank you, my son," he said. "I was feeling very sad over it all; I
thought you were going to try to deceive your father by saying nothing
to him about it."
"Why, father!" said Harvey in great astonishment. "Did you know
anything about it?"
Then the father told "his" story, how one of the clerks from the
office, passing down the south side of the square, a few minutes before
mail time, saw a letter lying in the grass near Mr. Bailey's house,
and picking it up, he recognized it as the one that was of great
importance, so, without loss of time, hastened to post it.
"And I saw him coming out of the post-office, just as I was walking
back there the second time, when I couldn't find the letter!" exclaimed
Harvey. "If I had only told him."