Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: GIESSBACH.]
DANGER CLIFF
AND OTHER STORIES
FROM
"THE PANSY"
[ISABELLA ALDEN]
[Illustration]
Boston
D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY
FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS
Copyright by
D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY
1884
CONTENTS.
DANGER CLIFF.
MY MOCKING-BIRD.
"LETTER FOR ME, SIR?"
A QUEER KIND OF SALT.
JOSEPH AND RICHARD.
THE BROKEN PROMISE.
GRANDMOTHER'S DARLINGS.
"CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES."
NOBLE AND TRICKSY.
GIESSBACH.
A BIT OF LOGIC.
INTERLAKEN.
WHITE AND CLEAN.
"BOY WANTED."
SIGHTSEEING.
SLINGS AND STONES.
DANGER CLIFF.
THERE was once a gentleman, it is said, who was very wealthy. He had a
large family of beautiful children; and he loved his wife and sons and
daughters very dearly; and daily he would have his coachman take them
out to ride.
Away they would go through country and city, and forest and park. But
near one of the pleasant rides there was a deep chasm, and its sides
were rocky and steep, so that to go too near it would be almost certain
death.
But the coachman would often see how very close he could drive to the
edge of the abyss without dashing his precious load to destruction.
This he continued to do day after day; though he did not mean any harm.
He only wanted to show how near he could come to danger and yet escape.
But one day he came just a little nearer, when in an instant he became
dizzy as he looked down into the dark chasm, and whirled from his high
seat and was gone.
But horses, coach and family, all escaped and came safely home.
Then another coachman must be found; and the gentleman sent word all
about, and advertised for a good, safe, skilful man. And many came and
he questioned them, each by himself, in order to get the right one.
"How near can you drive to Danger Cliff—" so that chasm was
called—"without driving over?" asked the gentleman of the first one who
came.
"Alt, your honor, it's not every coachman that can do the likes o' me.
Sure, I've driven as near as your finger's bridth minny's the time, an'
twas as the sim as though 'twas a mile or more. I've niver hurt a hair
o' the hid."
"You may pass out," was the answer. "I do not wish your services."
Then came another, and he was asked the same question about driving
near the chasm. And he said he could come within six inches, but feared
to go nearer.
"I do not wish you," was said, and he passed out, wondering how near
the gentleman wanted his coachman to drive to this place of danger.
So they came and went, till one answered: "Sir, I think I could drive
very near, even to the edge if necessary; but I always make it a point
to keep as far-away as I can."
[Illustration: DANGER CLIFF.]
"And you are the very man I wish, sir. Keep far-away from that and all
other dangers as you drive the coach about the country. Remember, my
family are in your keeping, and for their sakes as well as for your
own, do not take one risk unless you must."
Many's the boy who has said: "I'm not afraid to taste cider, or beer,
or wine, just this once. I know where to go, and where not to go, and
what I can stand. And I don't need any pledge. And if I want to smoke
a cigar I can smoke one, and there stop. And I can read one bad book
and no more, if I set my heart upon it. And I can spend an hour with
Jim Brown and not swear, even if he does. What's the use of a fellow's
going to excess every time? Why can't he have a little of these things
even if they are not quite so good, and stop just where one wants to?"
Yes, but nine chances to one, the boy will keep coming nearer and
nearer to Danger Cliff, and then in an instant his head will whirl, and
over he will go and disappear in darkness forever.
Yes, but who ever plunged over Danger Cliff who kept as far-away from
it as possible?
Keep far-away from every Danger Cliff.
MY MOCKING-BIRD.
IF you are an artist, and want to color this little fellow, be sure you
use no yellows or glowing reds about him. His back must be made a sort
of ashy brown, and his wings and tail nearly black, and his legs and
bill quite black. A bit of white, as you see, may be put on his breast,
but even this must not be too white; it ought to have a brownish tinge.
There is really not a bit of brightness for trimming; no yellow at
the tips of his wings, no ruffle of red about his throat. He isn't
pretty, and I may as well own it at once. The lovely goldfinch in the
cage opposite him, with her brilliant yellow wings that contrast so
beautifully with the green vines among which she loves to hop, is often
tossing her head at him in a saucy way, as though she knew she was a
beauty; and I'm sure she does, for the first place she visits when I
let her out of her cage, is the looking-glass.
Ah, but let me be just to my poor little goldfinch, if she is a trifle
vain. There was a time that she really did not know it was her own
pretty self she saw in the glass, and she actually took a seed with
her, and offered it to the bird in the glass.
[Illustration: MY MOCKING-BIRD.]
But you should see her when Mornie—that's the homely bird's name—makes
up his mind to sing. She retires to the most distant corner of her
cage, curls herself up in a still little heap, puts her head on one
side, and listens without the flutter of a feather. Either I imagine it
or there really does come a sad look in her eyes, as though she thought
she would give all the yellow in her lovely tail if she could sing like
that.
Oh, how he sings! Sometimes like a canary, sometimes like a wood-robin
in a spring morning, sometimes like the true mate of the pretty little
goldfinch herself. In fact, like any bird that he has ever heard;
springing the notes from one style of music to another much more
quickly than a young Miss at the piano can change her music, and begin
again.
A mischievous bird is this Mornie of mine. In addition to his musical
powers, he can cackle exactly like a hen; and when Mollie, my little
errand girl, first came to live with me, Mornie kept her half the time
running to see which hen had laid an egg, so sure was she that she
would find a fresh one.
Then, no sooner does Tom go to sawing wood in the back-yard, than
Mornie begins her "Screak! Screak! Screak!" so exactly like the sound
which the saw makes, that you would be almost certain to think Tom had
moved his work to the side piazza where Mornie hangs. Very often he
wakens in the middle of the night and gives us a song. But there is
this queer thing about him then. All his fun seems to be gone. Whether
he is lonely and homesick or not, I do not know, but the plaintive
little note that belongs to him is all he sings in the night.
That is not the time, he thinks, for mocking anybody.
I have some trouble in preparing his food for him; he is really very
dainty, unlike my goldfinch. He is very fond of raw meat chopped fine;
and indeed must have it, or he would lose his health. Mush and milk is
also a favorite dish of his; at least, that is what we call it, though
the meal is not cooked like our mush, but stirred raw into the milk.
Then, too, he must have his fresh fruit in its season. Strawberries
are his special favorites, but he will kindly condescend to eat any
fruit that he can get after strawberries are gone. Still, you need not
suppose that his tastes are all so dainty. He is by no means above
eating a good-sized grasshopper or beetle, and a fat worm now and then
he considers a special dainty.
Now I have taken a good deal of pains to inquire into the character and
habits of mocking-birds, and I find that mine is not an unusual one,
but is quite like his race; so that if you think of getting such a bird
for a pet, you may safely feed him as I do mine, and expect him to act
very much as Mornie does.
[Illustration]
He and all his class are very brave when they have any young birds to
defend; they have been known to kill snakes by darting at their eyes
and biting, and by striking them sharp blows on the head with their
beaks. It is said that even cats discover that it is wise to keep away
from the pretty little nest where young mocking-birds are being reared;
if they don't, the fierce father bird will dart at them and pick their
eyes out.
My cat Tabby has learned by some means that she is not to have any
thing to do with Mornie; I never taught her, so I think he has
explained it to her. By the way, another accomplishment he has is to
bark like a dog. Tabby, who is mortally afraid of dogs, went around
half the time with her back arched like a bow, when Mornie first came
into the house; but she has learned now, that the bark which she dreads
comes from the bird in the cage; and if she is awakened suddenly from a
nap, and begins to arch her back in fear, she remembers in a trice, and
goes off under the barn to feel ashamed.
Isn't it a wonder that Mornie never tries to talk? Perhaps he does try,
but he never succeeds. I often feel sorry for him, to think that when
he knows so much, he cannot learn to speak one little word. However, he
gives me a great deal of pleasure with his music; as much as goldfinch
does with her pretty ways and her gay dress; both of them are cheerful
and happy all day long, and do just as well as they know how. Without
any judgment, or reason, or soul, each contrives to do well and
joyfully just what God wants him to do.
"LETTER FOR ME, SIR?"
MEN, women, children, rich and poor, black and white, are hurrying into
the post-office, and pressing close up to the delivery window. Some are
expecting letters from distant friends.
That old man you see standing nearest the window, has been coming for a
long time. He gets nothing, yet keeps coming.
He had a son once, whom he brought up very tenderly. He was an only
child and was dearly loved. But the boy had a bad companion who led him
astray. Once he enticed him into a saloon and to drink. He was carried
back to his father drunk.
Do you wonder the poor father was heart-broken, and that he spoke
severe words.
But the boy instead of being ashamed and begging his father's
forgiveness, became very angry, and after a little, gathered all he had
into a bundle, and without a word of farewell slipped away one dark
night, where no one could tell.
When the father awoke the next morning and learned that his boy had
gone, his grief knew no bounds. He wrote letters in all directions
and put notices in a great many newspapers about his lost son. And he
travelled many hundred miles in search of him. But all to no purpose.
He thinks he is somewhere in Mexico. Poor old man! In the last few
months he has grown gray very fast. I don't think he will come here
many more mornings asking for news from his lost Henry. Death will come
and take him to the arms of Jesus, I trust, and maybe then he will get
some good word about his wandering boy.
How are you treating your parents and your Heavenly Father?
Standing next to this old man is a boy nine years old. His mother has
sent him to see if a letter has come yet from his father. Not long ago
this father joined the army and went a thousand miles away to the West
to fight the wild Indians.
But not a word has come from him. Many battles have been fought with
the savages, and the papers say that some of the soldiers have been
shot down.
Sometimes the soldiers wander away from the camp and while every thing
seems so safe around them, suddenly the crack of a rifle is heard, and
a bullet from an Indian gun speeds through the soldier's heart.
Or maybe he finds his way to a saloon and becomes drunk, and quarrels,
and is killed, and his friends far-away at the East, expecting some
day to welcome back a brave soldier, hear no more from him. I suppose
whisky kills a great many more than war.
I am so glad this dear child does not know what dreadful thing has
happened to his father, or his face would not be so sunny.
Next to this child is a lady. She is richly dressed and seems very
cheerful. She is laughing and talking with the gentleman near her. She
tells him she expects good news from her husband who is in Europe. But,
see! There comes a letter for her, and there's a black border about it.
She turns pale and trembles, and can hardly command herself enough to
break it open. I wonder what it says; she has hurried away weeping and
groaning.
And now the crowd presses on. The clerk says to this one and that,
"Nothing for you!" "Nothing for you!" "Pass along there!" "Don't block
up the way!" But there comes a rough-looking man. Wonder if he really
expects any one will write him a letter.
Yet the clerk hands him out one, large and handsomely addressed. How
astonished the man is. He blushes and shuffles away to a corner by
himself, and after trying a long time he brings forth a great fine
parchment. But, poor man! He can't read. He looks around the room for
help. His eye rests upon me.
"Sir, will you be so kind as to give me the meaning of this paper? I'm
a poor man without education, sir."
I take the large letter. It is from Europe, written by a lawyer, and
it says that one of this man's relatives has died and left him five
hundred pounds.
A QUEER KIND OF SALT.
THEY had been gathered around uncle Dick, who had just come back from
the Old World.
The children all thought this a very queer name, all except Mary, the
eldest, who thought she knew a little bit more than anybody else. She
told her mother in triumph, that she "got ahead of Lucy Jones the other
day, in geography, on the question: 'What is the Old World?'"
And little five-year-old Rose said that she "Fought it was queer it
s'ould be older'n any ovver one; s'e dessed zis world was mos' sixty
years old!"
But to go back to my story. Mamma came in and said:
"Children, you must go to bed now. I declare, if Rose isn't asleep
already over the statue of Milton!"
So with their thoughts full of Milton, they reluctantly went to bed,
and I am led to suppose that they dreamed of Milton that night. The
next day at dinner they had corn-beef.
"Oh, dear!" said mamma. "This meat has too much saltpetre in it. I
declare, I will never buy of that meat-man again!"
After dinner the children gathered around uncle Dick.
"Uncle," said Willie, getting up on uncle's knee, "what was that mamma
said the meat had too much of in? Salt—"
"Why, Willie Lathrop!" exclaimed Mary. "It is saltpetre. You ignorant
boy; I'm ashamed of you!" Mary was very much ashamed of Willie
sometimes, and sometimes he had reason to be ashamed of her.
"What is saltpetre, then, Mary?" said uncle Dick.
"Why, wh-y, wh-y—it's saltpetre. That's all I know."
"Then you see that after all you don't know so much," said he.
Perhaps this was unkind, but he did not mean it to be so.
"Do tell us about it," said the children, all except Mary, she had gone
over in the corner of the sofa.
"Well," continued uncle Dick, "when I was in India, it lay all over the
ground like the snow here in winter, (only not so thick) in some parts
of the country—kind of salt. When tasted it has a cooling, but bitter
taste. About an inch of the earth is taken up and put in large tanks
something like that you saw at Long Branch last summer (only not near
so large) full of water, and soaked there. The water is then taken out,
and the saltpetre is found in the bottom of the tanks. The most that
we use comes from the East Indies. It is sometimes called nitre. In a
great many places it is also found in caves."
"Well, now," said mamma, who had come in during the conversation,
"that's something I never knew before."
"Nor I either," said Mary.
"But you know a little more about it than you did awhile ago, don't
you?"
This from uncle Dick.
"How queer!" said Freddie and Willie.
JOSEPH AND RICHARD.
TWO boys about whom I think you will like to hear. Great friends they
were, and schoolmates. If you had lived a few years earlier, and had
been sent to London to school, you might have attended the school known
as the "Charterhouse," and sat beside Joseph and Richard. I wonder if
you would have liked them? They were very unlike each other. Joseph was
a quiet, handsome, well-behaved boy, who always had his lessons, always
did very nearly what was right, and always took a prize, sometimes
two or three of them. But poor Richard was forever getting into
trouble. A good-natured, merry boy who did what he happened to think of
first, "just for fun," and sometimes spent hours in bitter repentings
afterwards.
Yet in spite of their being so different, as I told you, the two boys
were great friends, and in vacations, Joseph used to take wild Richard
home with him to the minister's house; for his father was a clergyman.
Well, the years passed on, and the two boys became young men and went
to college together. Perhaps you think you will hear now that the
fun-loving boy became a great scholar, and the sober Joseph grew tired
of study! Not a bit of it; they kept just about as far apart as when
they were children. Joseph was a scholar and a poet; Richard slipped
along somehow, contriving to study very little.
Why am I telling you about them? Why, because I know you like to get
acquainted with people, and these are not boys put into a story—they
actually lived, and were just such persons as I have been describing.
It is time you heard their full names: Joseph Addison and Richard
Steele. Stop just here and look carefully at their pictures. Yes, they
lived a good while ago, their style of dress would tell you so much.
It is a little more than two hundred years since they were born. If you
want to be very particular about it, I might tell you that Richard was
born in 1671 and Joseph in 1672.
When they were quite through with school life, among other things that
they did, they published together a paper called "The Tattler." I
suppose you never saw a paper quite like it. "Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff"
was the imaginary name of a person, who, according to this paper,
went everywhere and saw every thing and told his story in "The
Tattler" to amuse and instruct other people. After two years the two
friends changed the name and style of their paper. They called it
"The Spectator," and in it a delightful man was made to visit all the
interesting places in and about London, and elsewhere, and tell the
most interesting things that took place.
[Illustration: RICHARD STEELE.]
I suppose there never was a newspaper so eagerly watched for as the
"Daily Spectator." You must remember that daily newspapers at that time
were very new and strange things. And indeed this was more like a story
book than a newspaper, only "The Spectator" went among real people, and
told just what they said and did.
Joseph Addison wrote a great deal for this paper, and by this time
the scholarly boy had become a great man; his writings were very much
admired. Indeed, to this day scholars love to read Addison. When I was
a little girl I remember seeing a copy of "The Spectator," which my
father had among his treasures, and he used occasionally to take it
out, and read bits of it to me, explaining why certain things in it
were so witty, or so sharp, and I remember thinking that "Sir Roger"
(one of the people whom The Spectator went often to see) was the nicest
man who ever lived. I did not understand at the time that he was an
imaginary man that Addison and Steele had created.
There is ever so much I would like to tell you about these two men.
How, after a couple of years, they changed their paper again, calling
it "The Guardian"; how, as the two men grew older, the difference
between them kept growing. Joseph Addison being the scholarly
gentleman, and Richard Steele being the good-humored, thoughtless,
selfish man, always getting into debt, and looking to Addison or some
one else to help him out. But I have only time to introduce them to
you. When you begin to study English literature you will find a good
deal in it about these two friends and the great difference there was
between them.
[Illustration: JOSEPH ADDISON.]
Sometimes I wonder whether anybody would have remembered Richard Steele
at all, if he had not been a friend of Joseph Addison. Yet there was
a good deal in him to like, and he might have made a splendid man, I
suppose. "Poor Dick!" his friends used to say of him, but they always
spoke of Addison with respect.
It is easy to get the name of being a very wild boy in school, always
doing mischief; but it is not so easy to be the first scholar, and by
and by one of the finest writers of the day.
THE BROKEN PROMISE.
MRS. MORSE kept no regular servant. Mrs. Sticht, a German woman,
came every Monday to do the week's washing, and every Tuesday to do
the ironing. She had always been a happy-faced, merry woman, but one
morning Stella Morse, going into the kitchen to make a pudding for
dinner, found a sad face over the wash-board.
"Good morning, Mrs. Sticht," Stella said.
"Good mornin', Miss Stella," responded the washerwoman soberly, looking
up with tear-filled eyes.
"Are you sick, Mrs. Sticht? You look pale and tired."
"I'm not sick, miss, but I am tired; I didn't rest much last night,"
she answered wearily.
"Then you better wait until another day to wash; mamma would be
willing, I'm sure," Stella said kindly.
"No, miss, I'll keep right on washin', but I thank you all the same for
your kindness. I'll be just as tired to-morrow, an' the day after too.
A mother can't have much rest with a sick child to tend."
"Is your little girl sick, ma'am?"
"She's bin sick these two weeks with an awful cold; she's that weak
that she can't hardly walk about the room, an' she's dreadful wakeful
nights."
"Who stays with her when you go out to wash?"
"No one but her little brother Tim; an' he's only seven years old."
"And you go out washing every day, do you not?"
"No, miss; if I did I'd have more money than I've got. This is my only
wash-place; the rest of the week I help an old fruit-woman down in the
market, but I don't get much pay."
"Do you earn enough to support your children?"
"Yes, miss; but my husband's long sickness and death brought some heavy
bills for me to pay. I can't get any extras for my little sick girl,
though she's that lonesome when I'm gone that Tim says she cries most
of the time."
"I should think she would be lonely, poor little soul! What does she
want most, Mrs. Sticht?" Stella asked.
A smile flickered over Mrs. Sticht's face. Perhaps this young lady
would do something for her little sick girl.
"Her whole mind seems to be set on a doll; she's never had a doll, and
she thinks she'd never get lonesome if she had one; she's a lovin'
little thing, Patty is."
"She shall have a doll before the week is out," Stella said decidedly.
"I have a pretty wax one with golden curls and blue eyes that I used to
play with myself. I have not had it out for a long time, and it has no
clothes, but I'll dress it up just as pretty as I can, and—let me see,
to-day is Monday—by Wednesday I'll have it ready."
"Oh! That is very good of you, Miss Stella," the woman said gratefully.
"Patty'll laugh for joy sure."
"Let me see, what is your number, Mrs. Sticht?"
"Number Eleven, Spraker's Court. I can come after the doll, if you say
so."
"No, I'll not trouble you; besides, I want to see the little sick girl.
Just tell her for me, please, that I'll be there on Wednesday with a
beautiful doll, dressed in ruffled blue silk, and I will bring her some
other things too."
Stella spoke earnestly, and a load was lifted from the mother's heart.
Her unspoken thought was, "I believe the child will soon get better
when she gets the doll she so longs for."
Patty's eyes grew bright when her mother told her that a dear, kind
young girl was coming to her on Wednesday with a beautiful blue-eyed,
golden-haired doll, dressed in blue silk.
"For my very own? O mamma, for my very own?" asked Patty, clasping and
unclasping her thin white hands in her excitement.
There were tears in her mother's eyes as she bent her head and kissed
Patty's forehead, saying tenderly, "Yes, dear, for your very own."
Wednesday came—a bright, beautiful day. Patty's first words to her
mother were, "O mamma! this is the day that my dolly is coming. O
mamma! I believe I'll get well quick when dolly comes."
Mrs. Sticht did not like to leave home that morning for some reason,
but she felt that she must, for the rent was nearly due, and the doctor
who came to see the child cared more for filling his pockets than for
filling human hearts with thankfulness. She came home very weary, but
with one glad thought, namely, "I suppose Patty is overjoyed with her
pretty doll. How good of Miss Stella to think of my poor little one!"
But as she stepped over her own threshold, a very weary little face
greeted her. Patty's cheeks were flushed, and she said brokenly, "O
mamma, my dolly didn't come."
"An' she wouldn't stop cryin', mamma, an' my head aches," sobbed Tim,
who was worn out by his sister's day of bitter sorrow.
Mrs. Sticht did not go to bed that night. She watched beside restless
Patty, who tossed about all night, talking about blue eyes and golden
hair and blue silk dresses, moaning in her sleep, "An' my dolly didn't
come; an' my sweet, sweet dolly didn't come."
Monday morning came. A little boy stood knocking at Mrs. Morse's
kitchen door. Stella opened it. "Mamma can't wash to-day, Patty's tuk
worse," he said quickly, and then scampered away.
"Oh, what a shame that I haven't dressed that doll!" Stella said
mentally. "I certainly meant to, but there were so many things to take
up my attention that I kept putting it off. I'll dress it this very
day."
Tuesday morning Stella, with the beautiful, tastefully dressed doll in
her arms, and a little bag of oranges also, started for Mrs. Sticht's.
In answer to her rap, Mrs. Sticht opened the door. Her eyes were heavy
with weeping and her face had grown more aged.
"How is little Patty this morning, Mrs. Sticht? I've brought her the
doll. Can I see her?" were Stella's rapid questions.
"Yes, Miss Stella, you can see her. Walk in, please."
There was anguish and reproof in the mother's tone; Stella stepped
inside the poorly furnished room; the mother led the way to one corner,
and pointed to a little white-draped cot.
The terrible truth dawned upon Stella. She had come too late. Patty
was dead. She burst into tears as the sobbing, broken-hearted mother
uncovered the little still face. Through her tears Stella could see how
beautiful Patty was, with her golden hair brushed back from a pretty
forehead, and her dear little hands clasped over her still bosom.
"And did you tell her I would bring the doll? Did she look for it?"
Stella moaned, her remorseful tears rolling down her cheeks like rain.
"'Look for it!' Yes, Miss Stella, she looked for it day and night,"
Mrs. Sticht answered huskily. "She was very light-headed toward the
last; she talked of nothin' else. Just before she died her reason
returned. She sat up in bed, an' put her arms around my neck an'
said, 'Good-by, mamma; I'm goin' to heaven.' I cried aloud, but Patty
smoothed my cheek, and said, 'Don't cry, mamma, you'll come by and by,
an' I'll be waitin' and lovin' my blue-eyed dolly, 'cause I know Jesus
will give me one, 'cause there's no tears in heaven.'"
GRANDMOTHER'S DARLINGS.
"TO-MORROW will be grandma's eightieth birthday," said one of the
children, "and we must make her just as happy as can be."
"What shall we do?" said another.
"Send her a long letter—four pages of foolscap—and a nice present,"
answered the first.
"Agreed!" said they all; and away they go among the stores on Main
street. But this will not do, and grandma doesn't care for that; she
has so many presents already it will be hard to find any thing fresh
and good for her unless they buy something rare and costly; but she
wouldn't be pleased to have so much money laid out for her, and the
"children" can't afford it.
But one has a bright thought. "Grandma dearly loves flowers; let's get
her a plant or two, they will not cost very much."
So they hurry from the stores to the greenhouse, for it must go out by
the very next mail.
"How sweet!" they all exclaim as they enter. "See those roses! How
moist and green and summery it is here!" Surely so! for the beauty and
breath of ten thousand flowers that the Lord had made, that moment were
there.
A marguerite and a begonia full of buds are soon bought, and the kind
greenhouse man asks but a trifle for them. Does he know that they are
going to grandma, and that she will take good care of the darlings?
Maybe he has no grandma.
Home they hurry with their two treasures, and they tuck them away in a
nice, new, clean pasteboard box. They look like two dear babies put to
sleep in their crib.
Now a strong string is tied about the box, then a paper over that,
and another string, and grandma's name and post-office are carefully
written upon it. And just across the street is honest old uncle Samuel,
or Sam, as most folks call him, but he was called that way when he
was born. He is always ready to run on certain kinds of errands, and
this is one of them. So he will carry the flowers and the big foolscap
letter too, all the way to grandma—nearly a hundred miles—for fifteen
cents! Very cheap, you see. But that's his way, and he makes a good
living because he's never idle like some folks who won't work unless
they get the highest wages.
On and on and on he hurries to carry your message, and he goes just as
cheerfully and cheaply a thousand miles for you as one. How like Jesus,
who came so far to bring us good tidings of great joy; only that he
didn't charge any thing at all, and he would have come and died all the
same, if there hadn't been but one poor sinner in all the world to be
saved!
But uncle Samuel is there now. Can't you see him hand it out to grandma?
How she wonders who sent it, and what it is. There! She has her
scissors, and she says, "Stand away, children, till I see what is in
this pretty box!" Then "snap, snap," go the scissors, and away fly
the cords, and she lifts the cover off carefully, and there the two
darlings are sleeping as soundly as babies.
And they all gather around grandma, and exclaim, and try to help her
wake them up softly and lift the sweet dears from their crib.
There they are now, looking out of the window, happy as two queens.
Every morning they lift up their faces and smile as soon as the sun
rises in the east over the sea. And when grandma comes and sprinkles
them all over with clean, cool water, they smile and say, "Thank you!"
as well as they can.
They make grandma very happy; more happy than if the children had sent
her a piano or silk dress.
Can't you send your grandma, or somebody's grandma a rose, or something?
"CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES."
"I'LL just go down by the lake, mamma, and wait until you are ready."
"But, Rollo, remember you are dressed in white, and it soils very
easily; don't go where you will get any stains."
"I won't, mamma, I'll be ever so careful."
This was the talk they had as Rollo, in his newest white suit, and
brilliant red stockings and fresh sailor hat, kissed his hand to his
mother and tripped out of the gate. Ten minutes more and he expected to
be oft to the park to hear the lovely music, and see the swans and the
monkeys.
It was less than ten minutes when he came back in just the plight which
you see in the picture. One shoe off, one elastic gone, his bright
red-stocking torn and hanging, himself covered from head to foot with
mud. How could a boy have done so much mischief to himself in so short
a time! If only Rollo had had a reputation for being careful, she
would have surely stopped to hear his story; but, alas for him! A more
heedless boy never lived than this same Rollo. Still, this was worse
than usual; so much worse that the mother decided on the instant that
he must have a severe lesson.
[Illustration: A SORRY PLIGHT.]
"Rollo," she said in her coldest tone, "you may go at once to Hannah
and have her put your every-day suit on, then you may go to my room and
stay until I return."
"But, mamma," said Rollo, his face in a quiver, his lips trembling so
that he could hardly speak.
But she passed him on the stairs without a word.
He called after her:
"Mamma, oh, mamma! Won't you please to listen to me?"
Then she said.
"Rollo, you may obey me immediately, and I do not wish to hear a word."
In a very few minutes after that the carriage rolled away, stopped at
Mrs. Merrivale's and took up Helen and her mother, then on to the park.
You needn't suppose Rollo's mother enjoyed it. She seemed to care
nothing for the park; she hardly glanced at the swans, and did not go
near the monkeys. All the time she missed a happy little face and eager
voice that she had expected to have with her. Miss Helen Merrivale was
another disappointed one. Had not she and Rollo planned together this
ride to the park? Now, all she could learn from his mother was that
Rollo was detained at the last minute. She did not intend to tell the
Merrivales that her careless little boy seemed to grow more careless
every day; and how she felt that she must shut her ears to his pitiful
little explanations, which would amount to nothing more than he "didn't
mean to at all," and was "so sorry."
The mother believed that she had done right nevertheless she was lonely
and sad. They came home earlier than they had intended. As they passed
Mrs. Sullivan's pretty cottage she was standing at the gate with Mamie
in her arms, and out she came to speak to them.
"You haven't the dear little fellow with you," she said eagerly, her
lips trembling. "I wanted to kiss him, the darling, brave boy. O, Mrs.
Grey, I hope and trust that he did not get hurt in any way?"
"Who?" said Mrs. Grey wonderingly. "My Rollo! Oh, no, he isn't hurt.
Why? Did you hear of any accident?"
"Didn't he tell you? Didn't anybody tell you? Why, Mrs. Grey, if it
hadn't been for your brave little Rollo—I shiver and grow cold all over
when I think where my baby would be now! She climbed into the boat; it
was locked, but she tried to sit down at the farther end, and she lost
her balance and pitched head first into the lake. Rollo saw her, your
little Rollo, he was the only one around; and I don't know how he did
it, and he such a little bit of a fellow. He climbed over the side of
the boat and reached after her; he stepped right in that deep mud and
got stuck, and the little man had sense enough to unbutton his shoe and
leave it sticking there, and wade out after baby. He saved her, I'm
sure I don't know how, nobody seems to know, but he tugged her out and
laid her on the bank, all unconscious, you know, and we thought she was
dead, but she is as well as ever, and O, Mrs. Grey, isn't there any
thing I can do for the blessed boy?"
"John," said Mrs. Grey, "drive home as fast as possible."
Up the steps she ran, gave the bell a furious pull, and dashed past the
little nurse-girl to her own room like a comet.
"Where is Rollo?" she said breathlessly to Hannah.
"He's asleep now, ma'am. He cried as though his heart would break, and
was a long time getting, comforted; but finally I got him dressed and
coaxed him to take a nap, and there's been half the town here this
afternoon to inquire how he is."
She didn't believe in disturbing sleeping boys as a rule, but she
picked this one right out of his bed and carried him, half smothered
with kisses, to her rocking-chair, and sat down to laugh and cry over
him and kiss him. Only half awake he was at last, still grasping the
big orange that Hannah had given him, when mamma, giving him more
kisses, said:
"Dear little brave boy, will you forgive mamma for all the sorrow of
this afternoon?"
Then he rubbed his eyes and looked at her wonderingly, and patted her
cheek, and said:
"You mean you will forgive me? You will, won't you? I truly didn't mean
to get wet and dirty."
How many kisses do you suppose he had then? As for Mrs. Sullivan, she
hasn't found enough yet to do for Rollo, though she keeps doing nice
little things all the time.
NOBLE AND TRICKSY.
TWO dogs they were, and I am about to tell you a true story concerning
them. Tricksy belonged to little Robbie Parker, and was one of the
nicest dogs I ever knew. Robbie thought so; he came to his mother
almost every night with a fresh story of the fellow's goodness.
"It is a pity he has such a dishonorable name," the mother said. "I
don't like tricky people."
"O, mamma!" would Robbie say. "He is only a dog; but then I know he
wouldn't do any thing mean."
In the course of time, Robbie's older brother Nelson, became the owner
of the wickedest looking little dog that over yelped. If you want to
know just how he looked, here is his picture.
What Nelson saw in the little wretch to please him, it would be hard to
say; and of all things, he was named Noble!
If the names could have been turned about, and "Tricksy" given to him,
I think it would have suited every one but Nelson.
He was a queer fellow, and certainly he had many tricks. Brave old
Tricksy took kindly to him, and used to frolic with him in a dignified
way, and whether it was that being with the little scamp so much he
learned some of his ways or not, I do not know, but certain it is that
the funny thing I am going to tell you, actually happened.
There was nothing that the little scamp named "Noble" liked better than
to have a race with old Tricksy around the great trees on the lawn.
Yes, perhaps there was one thing that he liked almost as well, and that
was, to curl himself on a certain cushion that before he came, had been
the large dog's special property.
So sure as the old dog left it for a minute to do an errand, or to
attend to any of his duties, up the little scamp would jump and be in
possession. Good old Tricksy stood it patiently a good many times, but
at last one day he evidently thought out a way to manage the little new
comer. It was just after a hearty dinner, and it was a chilly day, and
a cosy nap on the warm cushion, I suppose, looked most inviting to both
dogs. The little one was ahead, as usual, and the old dog sat clown by
the stove to think about it. At last he got up, moved gravely towards
the door leading to the lawn, then turned around to the little dog and
said as plainly as dog-language would admit:
"Come on, then, if you want a race."
[Illustration: TRICKSY.]
Down jumped the little dog in a perfect flutter of delight, and wagged
his tail, and barked his short, sharp barks that said "Oh, good, good!"
and ran to the door.
What did our grave old dog do but turn around very quickly, spring to
the bench behind the stove, curl himself on the cushion, and go to
sleep, leaving the disappointed younger one to bear the loss of his
frolic and his cushion, as best he might!
"He has earned his name!" somebody said, laughing. "O, Tricksy,
Tricksy! We can never say you ought to be called 'Noble' any more."
But what do you think Robbie did? Instead of being delighted with the
sharpness of his dear old dog, he burst into tears.
"Why, Robbie!" mamma said. "What is the matter?"
Then Robbie wailed forth his heart-breaking question:
"Was it wicked, mamma? Tricksy didn't know any better; he is only a
dog."
"Of course it was wicked!" Nelson declared in his most teasing tone.
"My good little Noble wouldn't think of doing such a cheating thing."
[Illustration: NOBLE.]
Whether mamma wanted to comfort Robbie or whether she thought Nelson
needed the lesson; or whether it was a little of both reasons that made
her speak just then, I will not stop to tell you, but what she said was:
"He may have been led astray by bad example. I wonder if it can be
possible that he saw a boy take his slate and book under his arm
yesterday and walk towards the stairs as if he were going to the
library to study, then dodge out at the side door, hide his books under
a rose-bush, and run off to play marbles with the boys?"
Not a word said Nelson; his cheeks grew red, and he looked down and
fumbled with his watch-chain. Do you think his mother could have meant
him?
GIESSBACH.
THE two girls squealed with delight over the picture. "Just see! three
falls, one on top of the other!" declared Fannie. "Oh dear me! How
I should like to see them! You can't tell any thing by looking at a
picture."
Tom came and looked over their shoulders.
"Where is the thing?" he asked.
"Why, it is that wonderful Giessbach fall in Switzerland that Mr.
Warder told us about. He said it was just the loveliest view in all
Switzerland; and he promised aunt Kate a picture of it. But pictures
are the most unsatisfactory things! I want to see the color of the
rocks, and the little ferns and bushes growing about, and hear the
water dashing. But I don't suppose I ever shall see or hear any such
things. I expect to fly, just as much as I expect to go to Switzerland."
"You needn't go to Switzerland to see a grand waterfall," declared
Tom. "I don't believe Giessbach with its horrible name, is any finer
than Cheyenne Cañon fall, that I stood under only last week. I tell
you, Fannie, that was a sight! Three falls, distinct from each other,
yet all tumbling into one at the bottom, and making the grandest kind
of white foam. I stood as close to it as I do to you, and the spray
came all over my face. Then we went up the mountain and looked down on
it all. How many falls do you think we saw then? Seven of them, all
roaring down together. That was a sight to remember, and we didn't have
to go abroad for it, either. You can just make up your mind, Fannie,
that there are about as grand things to look at in our own country as
can be found anywhere."
But Fannie was in the mood to grumble:
"Oh, well, one might as well go abroad as to go to Colorado; I don't
expect ever to be able to go there, either."
"Humph!" said Tom. "Neither did I expect to; I could have imagined
myself in the moon as well as in Colorado, three weeks before I went;
yet I went, and so may you. People can't ever tell what may happen to
them. You just remember that when you do go, there is one place to see;
the falls of Cheyenne Cañon. People who have seen both, say that there
is nothing grander in Switzerland than they get up in that cañon."
Cora, meantime, had been listening in silence, gazing with thoughtful,
far-away eyes at the picture. At last she spoke:
"Tom, what did you think of when you stood looking up at the wonderful
foamy water coming down from so high a place?"
Tom's face flushed a little.
"People think different things," he said, laughing. "As I stood there
looking at it, I said, 'What a grand place that would be for a shower
bath. I'd just like to go and stand under it, and take a good one.'
There was a little chap stood by me, a pale-faced fellow with blue
eyes, who had taken off his cap and stared up without speaking, for ten
minutes. Just then he turned to me and said:"
"'I've been thinking how easy it must be for God to make wonderful
things! Here he has made all this white water and tumbled it down from
away up in heaven—that is the way it looks—just for the sake of giving
these old still rocks something bright to play with.'"
"Wasn't that a poetical thought? Sounds like you, Cora. It made me
think of you at the time."
A BIT OF LOGIC.
RUFUS lay at full length on the sofa, and puffed a cigar, back parlor
though it was; when Mr. Parker reminded him of it, he said there were
no ladies present, and puffed away. Between the puffs he talked:
"There is one argument against foreign mission work which is
unanswerable; the country cannot afford it. Two millions and a half
of money taken out this year, and sent to the cannibals, or somewhere
else. No country can stand such a drain as that upon it, with
everything else it has to do. Foreign missions are ruinously expensive."
The two young sisters of Rufus, Kate and Nannie, stood on the piazza
and laughed.
"O Rufus!" said Kate. "You won't take a prize in college for logic, I'm
sure."
"What do you mean, little monkey? And 'what do you know about logic?"
"More than you do I should think. Just imagine the country not being
able to afford two millions and a half for missions, when just a few
years ago it paid over four millions for Havana cigars. Have you
thought of that, Rufus?"
"And I wonder how much champagne is a bottle?" chimed in Nannie. "How
much is it, Rufus? You know about ten million bottles are used every
year. And oh! why, Rufus, don't you know that we spend about six
millions for dogs! Something besides foreign missions might be given up
to save money, I should think."
"Where did you two grow so wise? Where did you get all those absurd
items?"
"We got them at the Mission Band; Kate is secretary, and I'm treasurer,
and these figures were all in the dialogue that Dr. Stephens wrote for
us to recite. If you choose to call what he says absurd, I suppose you
can; but he is a graduate from a college, and a theological seminary,
beside. I mean to tell him that you think two millions and a half for
foreign missions, will ruin the country; I want to hear him laugh." And
then the two girls laughed merrily.
"You needn't tell him anything about it," said Rufus sharply. After the
girls ran away, he added thoughtfully:
"How fast girls grow up! I thought those two were children; and
here they are with the Mission Bands, and their large words about
'secretaries and treasurers.'"
"And their embarrassing facts about money," interrupted Mr. Parker.
"Those girls had the best of the argument, Rufus;" and then he too
laughed.
INTERLAKEN.
INTERLAKEN means between the lakes, and is the name of a village in
Switzerland. It is situated between two lakes called Thun and Brienz.
All you geography scholars will be able to turn to it in your minds,
or if not so, on your maps. The village is in a plain and on the river
Aare, and you have in the picture a view of the bridge across the
river. The people who live at Interlaken lead quite uneventful lives,
gaining the means of living by carving toys in all sorts of quaint
devices, which are sold in the shops which line the principal streets.
The wonderful scenery brings large numbers of visitors to the place,
and these visitors are the purchasers of the curiosities of the shops.
Large quantities of Swiss lace and Swiss carving find its way to the
United States in the trunks of American travellers; and I have no doubt
that when you visit Europe you will bring away a quantity of the work
of these same Interlaken lace-makers and carvers. However you may set
your face against the folly, you will be sure to find some things which
you must have.
[Illustration: INTERLAKEN.]
The scenery in this valley is among the finest in Switzerland. From
the windows of some of the pensions or boarding-houses, you may get a
view of the celebrated "Jungfrau." Do you know that Jungfrau means "the
maiden?" There seems to be a dispute as to the origin of the name. Some
say it was given to this lofty peak because of the spotless purity of
appearance on account of the unsullied snow which always covers its
summit. The view which you get of the Jungfrau at Interlaken is through
an opening in the range of lower mountains that lie at the base of the
grand old mountain itself, which is nearly fourteen thousand feet high.
I believe that the first to reach the top was a party of natives of the
valley, in 1828.
Soon after a scientific expedition, accompanied by the renowned
Agassiz, made the ascent. You will find within a few miles of the
village of Interlaken many points of wild and picturesque beauty, and
you will want to visit the waterfall Staubbach, which means "sky born,"
and is one of the highest in Europe.
WHITE AND CLEAN.
"C-H-E-S-T-E-R!" It was his mother's voice, and it rang out from her
room in the second story. "Only half an hour until school-time."
"Yes'm," shouted Chester. "I'll be there." But he bent over the tub and
rubbed Sport so fiercely that he howled.
"Keep still, sir," said Chester. "A dog who can't stand being washed
shouldn't have white feet and a white nose; I'm not going to have you
trotting around looking so horrid dirty as you have for a week. Look
here, sir; don't you try to bite me. If you do, you'll get a whipping.
I'm in a hurry."
Rub, rub, souse, souse!
Poor Sport shivered, and howled, and struggled, and looked as though he
would never feel equal to his name again: but Chester splashed away.
His mother opened her window again.
"My son, you shouldn't have begun with the dogs this morning; you knew
it was late. Let Sport go at once, and leave Beauty until to-night."
[Illustration: THE CAUSE OF A POOR ARITHMETIC LESSON.]
"O, mamma! I cannot possibly leave Beauty. He looks worse than Sport
did."
"Can't help it, my boy. You will be late to school, and have a poor
lesson."
"I'm coming, mamma, right away."
Out went Sport to the piece of carpet with which he was rubbed; glad
was he to get out of that horrible tub at any cost. But in went Beauty,
and the soaping, and howling, and splashing, and scolding went on
again. Chester worked fast, no doubt—although I suppose Beauty did not
think so—but before his work was half done, the window of his mother's
room went up with a click that meant business.
"Chester, put that dog on the ground and come here immediately."
Which Chester immediately did, shaking the soapy drops from him as he
went.