THE HAPPY PARTY.
In coming from the farm, they saw a very pretty sight. A lady, who
lived in a pleasant cottage in the valley, was seated in her garden
playing on a guitar, whilst her three children were dancing before her.
In a moment Blanche and Kate had run through the gate to look at them.
Their Aunt stopped at the paling, but told them to go on, and join the
merry dance. "May we, Aunt?" asked Kate. "Surely, my love; we know
these children and their mother well; and it is as much our duty to
rejoice with them that rejoice, as to mourn with those who mourn."--"I
am mighty glad of that!" said Blanche:--and behold them footing it
away on the soft green turf. The Aunt joined the lady, and sang the
merry air the latter played; the guitar sounded better, when joined by
the voice. The dance was more mirthful when five, instead of three,
threaded its mazes. It was a fine summer's eve, cool but dry, balmy
and mild: time passed away quickly. After having been pleased and made
others pleased, the group parted. The widow, cheered and happy, led her
merry little ones into the house. The Aunt, gay and content, walked
home with her young charge. "What a pleasant dance we have had!" cried
Blanche. "Yes," said Kate, "I am glad we joined the party; we made them
joyous, and ourselves so too. I am glad we joined them: are not you,
Aunt?"--"Yes, my dear, very glad. Be happy and make happy, is, you
know, my merry motto."--"I thought you meant to soothe woe and relieve
distress, when you talked of making happy."--"That is one of the modes
by which we can dispense gladness, to be sure; but it is not the only
one. I am a great friend to harmless mirth; it gladdens the human
breast, and opens the heart of man to man. To be cheerful together,
is a sure and pleasant way of joining ourselves to our neighbours and
friends. He who made the world so smiling, formed us also to be gay."
[Illustration:
_page 40._
_The Happy Party._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
THE HEN AND CHICKENS.
The visit to the farm-yard made the girls turn with fresh pleasure to
their own little court, and their own poultry; whilst Kate fed the
larger fowls, from a basket under her arm, Blanche knelt down, and held
a dish of softer food, for the hen and the young chickens within their
wicker coop; this little brood had been a source of much pleasure. In
a corner of the cow-house, Kate had first found their pretty white
hen sitting on five eggs; her Aunt told her some more eggs had better
be placed under her, as she could cover and give warmth to twelve or
fourteen. "But, Aunt, she will not let any one approach; she pecks at
my fingers, even if I try to feed her!"--"Well, we must see what can
be done," was the Aunt's reply; and she took a basket full of fine
fresh eggs and went to the nest. The hen, at first, seemed ruffled and
angry; but when an egg was held out to her, she raised her breast a
little, and with her bill, helped to receive and place the egg under
her bosom. In this manner she took ten eggs, and then would have no
more. "She finds she has now as many as she can cover and keep warm,"
said the Aunt, "therefore she will not receive any more."--"What sense!
What instinct!" cried the girls, charmed with the scene; "how useful
her bill is to her!"--"Yes, it is her third hand," said the Aunt; "with
her bill she will daily turn each egg, so that each part shall be duly
warmed; and she will never quit her nest for more than a few minutes at
a time, for fear her eggs should be harmed by the cold."--"Oh! the good
creature!" cried Kate. "She will do all this for three weeks," added
her Aunt, "for three long weeks, and nothing will divert her from her
duty; nothing will draw her from her loved nest, and she will become
thin and weak from watching and little food; yet she will fulfil her
duty. Such is the instinct given her by the great Author of nature! I
often think that human mothers would act better towards their children,
did they listen more to the dictates of their hearts,--their hearts,
which our Father in heaven warms and inspires."
[Illustration:
_page 43._
_Hen & Chickens._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
THE WELSH HARPER.
From the court-yard, a wicket led into a green wooded lane, and as
the three rambled forth, careless whither they roved, sure of finding
beauty in all around, they came at a turn of the path in view of a
strange object. It was a very old man, seated beneath an oak tree; his
hat lay on the violet bank on which he was placed, and he was playing
a Welsh air on a Welsh harp. He was no beggar; his dress was decent,
and his figure robust. When his song was ended, for he sang as well as
played, the ladies went up to him, and heard his story. He was one of
the few harpers that were yet to be found in Wales; the sad remnants
of those aged bards, who, in times of yore, were so dear and so common
in that land of vales and mountains. His cot, on the brow of a cliff,
far away among the rocky wooded heights, had been blown down one stormy
night. It was old, he said, like himself; and, like himself, no longer
able to withstand the tempest's power. "So, lady, I am come, in my old
age, to seek a shelter in these more peaceful valleys."--"And have you
found a refuge worthy your grey hairs?"--"Aye, lady, indeed have I;
our young Lord Glenmore has given me a cot, in that snug nook, in the
deep forest; there, where the clear spring trickles, and the high trees
meet."--"You speak like a poet, good harper."--"I was one once," he
said, and sighed, and then played a soft wild dirge on his harp. The
tears came into his eyes, and into those of his hearers: on a sudden,
he dashed away his tears, and his fingers struck a sprightly measure.
"Why should I weep," he cried, as he finished the gay air, "I, who have
so much to make me rejoice? Come to my cottage, lady; my dame will
welcome you, and you will see what comfort my young Lord has heaped on
me. He is young and gay, but he does not forget his poor tenants; he
has the power and the will to do good; he wrote, with his own hands,
his orders for my comfort; it was little trouble to him; but how great,
how very great the blessing to us! Oh! if all lords were so thoughtful
and so active!"
THE HARPER'S COTTAGE.
The ladies did not forget the old harper; and not many days passed
before they sallied forth to search for his lowly cottage. They wound
through the mazes of the wood, treading on dry leaves and crackling
boughs, and scaring the squirrel from its nook, and the dove from
her lone haunts. The sound of the gurgling stream, dashing down the
mountain's side, guided their steps, and drew them to the very spot.
The harper and his aged wife were seated by their blazing fire, and
the ladies were soon seated with them. Both looked cheerful and
happy, though both had known much sorrow; but, just ready to finish
the journey of life, they said they had done with this world's care.
Nothing can be more cheering than the sight of a gay old age! It seems
to speak a long and blameless life; it seems to speak, a body unhurt
by vice and folly, a mind unstained by crime or guilty thoughts. "And
have you no children?"--"We have had three: two gallant boys, who died
for their country; and our youngest son is now a brave sailor."--"And
you see him sometimes?"--"Always, when he can come to us; and he never
comes with empty hands: that shawl, his mother wears, he brought her;
and this purse with gold in it, he gave me. Oh! he is a dear good boy."
The happy parents were never tired of talking of this loved child; and
Kate and Blanche smiled and wept, as they heard of the comfort and joy,
which a kind son could dispense to his aged parents. As they slowly
walked home, they spoke of all they had seen and felt, and the good
Aunt made many remarks. "You see, my dears, how the pains and weakness
of old age can be soothed, by the love and duty of tender children;
you see that when all other feelings have passed away a parent's
love survives. Ah! nor time nor absence can destroy a parent's love!
Children should bear this in mind, and omit no chance of giving joy to
those, who perhaps depend on them for all their joy, who once were the
source of all their own."
THE POACHER.
In the wildest part of the wood, just where it bounded the heath, the
party were startled by seeing a man rush out before them. He had a
gun in his hand, and would have fled; but, in his fright, he had broken
his wooden leg, and soon fell to the ground.
[Illustration:
_page 50._
_The Poacher._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
The kind Aunt drew away her girls from the presence of the rude clown;
and, calling out to him, that she would send some one to succour him,
she moved forward as quickly as she could. From the village they sent
a peasant to this helpless cripple; and, as they paced homewards,
the Aunt told her girls his story. "That young man was once rich and
honest. He is the son of a worthy farmer, whose fate I will tell you,
when I have done telling that of his son. Young Godfrey, for that is
his name, gave way to habits of sloth and self-will; of course, he soon
became tired of having nothing to do, so he wanted to find them who
would talk to him and amuse him. The busy would not give up their time
to this slothful youth; so he went among the idle, among those like
himself. He rambled about all day, and spent the night in drinking, and
all sorts of folly; his health was lost, his money was spent; he became
sickly and feeble, poor and wretched: his temper was spoilt; the merry
boy became the peevish, brutal man. In vain his friends prayed, and his
father wept; he heeded them not, and, going on from folly to crime, he
became a poacher. A poacher is a lawless person, who kills and steals
game. In one of his nightly prowlings, he was caught in a trap, set for
such thieves, and his leg was broken, so it was cut off, and he had a
wooden leg; all this pain and disgrace did not cure him; you see, he
goes on his wild career, and I tremble to think how it will end. Ah!
the first step in vice is the first step in sorrow. Happy they who
listen to advice, and stop short whilst they can."
THE UNHAPPY FATHER.
"And now for the father's sad tale," added the good Aunt. "One very
cold day, last winter, when the ground was frozen hard, I went out to
visit a sick child in the village. Crossing the heath, on my return
home, I saw, beneath a tree, the figure of an old man. On hearing my
approach, he arose, and, kneeling before me, besought my pity. A few
rags barely hid his frozen limbs, and want and sorrow wrinkled his
time-worn face. I stopped to hear his story, and learn how I could
best serve him. Alas! it was the wretched father of Godfrey. 'He has
spent all my money, madam; but that I could have borne, had it gone by
ill-luck, or in any honest way: but he has brought my grey hairs with
sorrow to the grave by his vices. Oh! when I held him in my arms, my
first pretty baby; when I saw him on my knee, my loved and only son;
I little thought of all the sorrow he was to heap upon me! His mother
died whilst he was an infant, and I mourned for her; but now I am glad
she did not live to see what I have seen. And I have nobody to blame
but myself: I was too good to him; I let him have his own way too much;
all my friends said, You indulge the lad too much; you will repent it:
and so I do, so I do.' His tears here choaked his voice; I tried to
comfort him; he shook his head, and said, 'What comfort is there for a
father, whose only child deserts him, whose only child is a disgrace to
him? There is no comfort for me on this side of the grave! If I had but
a hovel, where I could hide my wretched head, and not shew the world
to what my son has humbled me!'--Love, you see--a father's love--was
yet alive, and willing to shield the very child from whom sprang all
his woes."
[Illustration:
_page 53._
_The Unhappy Father._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
"You may be sure, I found a shelter for the poor man; and he died soon
after, with his last words sending his blessing and his pardon to his
cruel son. Such is the force of a parent's love! Such are the evils a
child may inflict!"
THE WHITE AND PINK TULIP.
The sad story of guilt and grief had so much hurt the two girls, that
for some days they could think of nothing else; and they became grave
and mournful. To revive their spirits, their Aunt took them to walk
in the noble gardens of Lord Glenmore. Among the beds of flowers, was
a plot of tulips of the finest forms, and the brightest colours: one
of the tulips the Aunt plucked, and gave to Kate. It was a double one,
of snowy brightness, with the edges tinted in shades of the richest
crimson: nothing could be more lovely; and Kate said she would draw and
paint it, as soon as she got home. "That is one of the uses of drawing
and painting, Kate, to preserve an image of the lovely objects which
nature scatters around us. When you have done this piece, we will take
it to our friend, the widow; she is fond of flowers, and will value
your sketch. Thus by your skill, in this charming art, you will not
only preserve a picture of this lovely flower, but you will please one,
who has pleased you, and deserves this mark of your regard."
Many other fine shrubs and plants were seen in the grounds and gardens;
but no object gave them more joy, than their poor man digging away in
one corner. He looked well, and seemed happy, and was kindly spoken of
by the bailiff of Lord Glenmore, who told them the poor fellow worked
hard, and was very grateful. And the man took off his ragged hat, and
made a bow so humble, so thankful, it was cheering to look upon him.
It was cheering to think a fellow-creature had been saved from sorrow,
and placed where he could earn his bread with decent pride. "Do not
let us think how often we have been misled by the poor," said the good
Aunt; "let us only think of such as this man, who was a real object of
distress, who has proved honest and grateful. It is better to take any
trouble than to let _one_ case of real distress pass without aid. How
great is the reward for all our trouble, when we can gaze upon one eye
lighted up to gladness through our efforts!"
THE DEAD GOLDFINCH.
Kate and Blanche had a bird, which they had long fed and nursed with
the tenderest care. One day, it was found dead on the floor of the
room, its little feet shrunk on its body, its wings outspread, and its
head bloody; how did this happen? Blanche wept, and blamed Kate; Kate
wept, and blamed Blanche: nothing but reproach and mourning was to be
heard. The Aunt came in, to inquire into the matter. Both the girls
began speaking at the same time, each blaming the other. "I do not like
this," said the Aunt; "this is neither just nor kind; I do suppose you
both have been to blame; and I must tell you, that in this instance, as
in all others, it does not lessen our own faults to prove that others
have erred with us. Indeed, I think it adds to our fault thus to accuse
and reproach others. One of you left the cage on the very edge of the
table, it seems; and the other forgot to fasten the door of the cage,
with the care it ought to have been done. Thus both were to blame; and
it would please me more, and be more a sign of virtue in you, if you
would each lament your own error, and not rudely upbraid each other."
The two girls felt the good sense of their dear friend's remarks, and
saw their error. The very last Sunday, they had heard a fine sermon,
on the text of the "mote" and "beam," and they had said, at the time,
what a good sermon it was, and how just, and wise, and true, was every
part of it. Yet, behold! within a little week, each word and sentence
in it was forgotten. Such is often the fate of good advice. It is hoped
the advice given in this little book will not so soon pass away; but
that all those who read of Kate and Blanche, and their good Aunt, will
bear in mind their sayings and their doings; and then, like them, they
will learn to profit by what happens around them. They will learn to
turn each event of life to some good purpose, either for themselves or
others, and thus earn that cheerful old age, which they have just had
described to them in the Harper's tale.