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DAISY'S WORK.
[Illustration]
FLOWERETS.
[Illustration]
* * * * * *
Flowerets.
A SERIES OF STORIES ON THE COMMANDMENTS.
BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS,
_Author of the "Bessie Books."_
I. VIOLET'S IDOL. THE FIRST AND SECOND COMMANDMENTS $0.75
II. DAISY'S WORK. THE THIRD COMMANDMENT 0.75
III. ROSE'S TEMPTATION. THE FOURTH COMMANDMENT 0.75
IV. LILY'S LESSON. THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT 0.75
V. HYACINTHE AND HER BROTHERS. THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT 0.75
VI. PINKIE AND THE RABBITS. THE EIGHTH, NINTH, AND
TENTH COMMANDMENTS 0.75
_The set in a neat box, $4.50._
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
_New York_.
* * * * * *
[Illustration]
DAISY'S WORK.
The Third Commandment.
by
JOANNA H. MATHEWS,
Author of the "Bessie Books."
"Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain;
for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his
name in vain."
"Let your communication be yea, yea, and nay, nay; for
whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil."
[Illustration]
New York:
Robert Carter and Brothers,
530, Broadway.
1870.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
Robert Carter and Brothers,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Cambridge:
Press of John Wilson and Son.
[Illustration]
TO
_MY DEAR LITTLE COUSIN_,
LULU CHAUNCEY.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL 11
II. A CLUSTER OF DAISIES 35
III. THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED 63
IV. DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS 85
V. DAISY AT STUDY 107
VI. DAISY A TEACHER 127
VII. THE SWEARING CLASS 151
VIII. DAISY'S NAME 181
IX. THE LOST FOUND 201
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
DAISY'S WORK.
I.
THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL.
THERE stood our Daisy. What a Daisy it was too; what a fair, sweet
floweret; pure and innocent-looking as the blossoms over which she
bent. There she stood beside her basket of flowers, a little spot of
brightness and beauty amidst all the dust and heat and turmoil of the
noisy street, on that warm summer afternoon.
It was a street which ran beside a great railroad depot. Porters,
carmen, and hackmen were calling, shouting, and swearing; passengers
were hurrying by to catch the trains which were starting every few
minutes; carriages driving up with their loads of ladies and children;
and farther down the street were great trucks laden with freight, and
express-wagons filled with baggage, which the railroad porters were
unloading with a great amount of noise and crash; and amongst it all
was Daisy, standing opposite the door of the ladies' entrance.
But not one of all those passers-by knew that she was a "Daisy,"
or that those were her namesakes which she held so lovingly in her
little hands. Now and then one stopped to buy one of the five or ten
cent bouquets, so tastefully arranged, which lay in her basket; and
almost all who did so had a kind word to give the child; for there
was something in her look and air which pleaded for tenderness and
sympathy. It did not seem that this was her proper place; for even
in her homely dress she looked so dainty and delicate, and moved and
spoke so like a little lady, that it was easy to see that she had been
accustomed to a different kind of life. But all who noticed her, or
stopped to buy her flowers, were in such haste that none had time for
more than a passing interest in the child, and contented themselves
with wondering and pitying.
Down the street came a lady with a little girl, the latter skipping and
jumping as she held her mother's hand. No wonder the little one was
happy, and as full of play and merry pranks as any kitten; for she had
been spending such a pleasant day with mamma in the city, and was now
going back with "such lots to tell about and heaps of pretty things" to
her own lovely country home.
"Oh, see, mamma!" she said, as her eye fell upon the other child, "see
those pretty flowers that dear little girl is selling. She is just
about as large as Lola Swan, and _don't_ she look nice and sweet. Won't
you buy some flowers from her, mamma?"
"You have plenty of flowers at home, dear Lily, and we have about as
much as we can carry now," answered her mother.
"Oh, dear mamma, but those little brenkays" (bouquets, Lily meant)
"would take up such a tiny mite of room, and I want you to buy some for
kindness to the little girl. She looks so sorry out of her eyes, mamma."
Moved by the pleadings of her little daughter, Mrs. Ward turned toward
the flower-girl, whom in her hurry she had nearly passed without a
look, and asked the price of her bouquets.
"What a pretty pot of daisies! Can't I have that, mamma?" asked Lily.
But at this the flower-girl drew back and put one hand over the pot of
daisies she held in the other, as if she feared it was to be taken from
her by force.
"I'll ask papa to carry them for me, mamma," said Lily.
"Ho! ho!" said a cheery voice behind her, "so you think papa has
nothing better to do than turn expressman and carry all your traps, do
you? I wonder how many bundles are already waiting in the depot for me
to put safely in the cars;" and turning about Lily saw her father, who
had overtaken his wife and little girl.
"Oh! lots and lots!" said Lily, jumping about with new glee as she saw
him. "We bought something for everybody, papa; and I bought a present
for your birthday to-morrow; but it is a secret. Mamma is going to fill
it with ink and I'll put it on your writing-table 'fore you come down
in the morning; but you won't ask what it is, will you?"
"Not on any account," said Mr. Ward. "But you must make haste and buy
your flowers, or we shall not find good seats in the cars. So you want
these daisies, do you? How much are they, my child?"
But again the flower-girl drew back.
"I couldn't sell them, sir," she said; "at least not now, not if,----"
"Oh! they are for some favorite customer, hey? You see, Lily, you can't
have them. Well, pick out your bouquets; we'll hang them about our
necks if we can't carry them any other way," said Mr. Ward. "This is
the little girl I told you about, my dear," turning to his wife, who
had been looking at the sweet, sad face of the young flower vender.
"What is your name, my child?" asked the lady.
"My name is--they call me Margaret," said the child, with hesitation in
her voice and manner, and a sudden flush breaking over her face.
"There," said Mr. Ward, when, having paid for the flowers which Lily
had chosen, he hurried his wife and daughter away; "there, my dear, I
did not say too much about that child, did I?"
"Why no," said Mrs. Ward, looking back to the small figure beside its
basket of flowers, "there is certainly something very interesting about
her. Her speech and manner, as well as her looks, are strangely refined
and lady-like for one in her position. I wish we had time to talk more
to her."
The flower-girl looked after them and sighed,--a long, weary sigh, as
she watched the frolicsome Lily.
"Most all little girls have their fathers and mothers," she said softly
to herself; "but I don't have either. I wonder why God did take both of
mine away; if He didn't know how lonesome I would be, or why He didn't
take me too. I don't see what good I can be to Him all alone by myself,
except Betty and Jack. But then He knows, and maybe He only wants me to
be patient till He's ready to take me."
[Illustration]
But the wistful eyes brightened again, as, having watched Lily and her
friends disappear within the door of the depot, she turned them the
other way to see if new customers were coming.
"There he comes," she said, as her eye fell upon a tall,
broad-shouldered gentleman coming down the street, "soldier" written in
every line and motion of his figure, from the erect, stately head, down
to the ringing, military tread of his firm foot.
"Good afternoon, little woman," he said, returning with a pleasant
smile her welcoming look; "is my wife's bouquet all ready?"
Taking from the corner of her basket a bouquet somewhat larger than the
rest, and of rather choicer flowers, she held it up to him.
"Thank you, sir," she said, as she received the price; and then, with
rising color, added, "would it be too much trouble to carry this to the
lady?"
"Too much trouble? No! How much is it?" he said, putting his hand again
into his pocket.
"Oh! sir, I didn't mean that. I didn't want to sell it, but to give
it to you, if you would take it to the lady you buy flowers for every
day. I want to send it to her because you are so kind to me, and
because--because you put me in mind of--of somebody."
"That is it, is it?" said the gentleman. "Well, I can't refuse such
a pretty gift, so prettily offered. And who do I put you in mind of,
pray?"
"Of my papa, sir. You do look like him."
"Humph!" said the gentleman, not much pleased at the idea that he was
like the father of this little poor child, above her station though she
looked. "And these are daisies, hey? My wife will like them."
"General, do you mean to miss the train?" said an acquaintance, as he
passed.
"Not with my own consent, certainly," said the gentleman. "I shall
thank you for the lady to-morrow, my little girl."
But as he turned to go, his foot slipped upon a piece of orange-peel,
thrown down by some careless person, and he had nearly fallen. He would
have been down altogether but for his little companion; but as he
involuntarily put out his hand, she caught it; and that support, frail
and slight as it was, was sufficient to steady him.
Kind of heart, noble and generous though he was, the soldier was
hasty-tempered and quick, and an oath--a fearful oath--burst from his
lips.
"Ah, you were my good angel. You have saved me from a bad fall," he
said almost in the same breath, but in a very different tone and
manner, as he turned to the child.
His good angel! Ah, yes! More than he knew, his good angel. Those
little hands should from this time hold him from falling into the sin
of which he had just been guilty.
Years ago General Forster would have been shocked at the thought of
letting such words escape his lips, though even then he was none too
reverent or careful in speaking of sacred persons or things; but in
the bustle and excitement of war he had, alas! like many another brave
man, allowed himself to fall into the habit of taking God's holy
name in vain. But careless though he might be before men in moments
of forgetfulness, or when his hasty temper got the better of him, he
seldom or never suffered himself to use such words before women or
children; why, you shall learn.
"Why, have I hurt you?" he asked, seeing with surprise her startled and
troubled face.
"No, sir, oh! no," she answered, catching her breath, "but, but"--
"Well, but what?"
"But I am so sorry;" and that she was so was proved, as she covered her
face with her hands and burst into tears.
"Sorry for what?" he asked.
She gave him no answer, but shrank a little away.
"Sorry for what?" he repeated, as if determined to know; and the tone
of command, which seemed to say he was used to instant obedience,
forced her to speak, whether she would or no.
"Sorry for those words you said, sir," she sobbed.
"Those words? What words?" But his question answered itself as it
was spoken; for his wicked words, which but for this would have been
forgotten the next instant, came back to him, and he stood rebuked
before this poor little flower-girl. He repented already; but repented
only because he had distressed this simple child, in whom he took so
much interest, not yet because he had grieved and offended the Holy One
whose name he had profaned.
Still he was vexed too.
"Why, you don't mean to say," he said rather impatiently, "that you
never hear such words as those, standing here as you do, half the day,
with those rough men and boys about you?"
"Oh, yes, sir!" she said, plaintively. "I do hear such words, often,
often. I try not to; but I can't help it, you see; and it makes me so
sorry. But I thought those poor men and boys could not know how to
read, and had never been taught better, or perhaps they did not know
what God had said in His commandments. But I did not think gentlemen
said such things; and I liked you _so_ much."
And did she like him less now? He, the _gentleman_, the rich man, felt
that he could not wish to lose the respect and liking of this little
child whom he thought so far beneath him, and he was ashamed and sorry.
He knew that it was not impertinence, but only her innocent simplicity
and truthfulness, which had caused her to say what she did. But to know
that he was in the wrong and to acknowledge it, were one and the same
thing with this true-hearted man.
"You are right, Margaret," he said, forgetting how fast the moments
were flying. "_Gentlemen_ should not say such things, especially before
ladies and children. It is bad manners; but I forgot myself just then."
She took her hands from her face and looked up at him. There was an
unspoken question in the clear, earnest eyes, and it was plain that she
was not yet satisfied.
"Well," he said smiling at her, "what troubles you still? Let me have
it all."
"I was only thinking what difference could it make, sir."
"What difference could what make?"
"Whether it was ladies and children who heard it, sir," she answered
timidly. "God hears it all the same, doesn't He? And it can't make any
difference to Him who else hears it."
She looked up as she spoke at the blue sky overhead, and the look and
the words brought to him a sudden sense of God's constant presence and
nearness. He had known it well enough before,--that the Almighty Eye
saw him always; that the Almighty Ear heard him always; but he had
never felt it as he did now. The gentle, timid reproof had gone far
deeper than the little giver had intended, and her hearer felt ashamed
that he had confessed to her that he would pay a respect to a woman or
child which he did not feel it needful to pay to his Maker. He could
make her no answer.
"_You_ behind time, General?" said the voice of another friend as he
hurried past; and the scream of the warning whistle told the gentleman
that he had no time to lose.
"I'll see you to-morrow. Good-by, my child. God bless you," he said
hurriedly, and rushed away.
But just in time; he was the last passenger, and stepped upon the
platform of a car as the train was put in motion. The jar threw him
once more a little off his balance, and he caught by the rail to save
himself, while again hasty, profane words rose to his lips.
But they did not pass them. What though no human ear should hear; "God
heard them all the same," and they were checked before even the summer
wind could catch them; and in their place the angels carried up the
heart-breathed prayer, "God keep me from them in time to come."
His next neighbor in the cars thought General Forster remarkably silent
and unsociable that afternoon. He would not talk, but buried himself
behind his newspaper. If the neighbor had looked closer he would have
seen that the General's eyes were fixed, not on the paper held before
his face, but on the little pot of daisies which rested on his knee.
And over the delicate pink and white blossoms was breathed a vow,--a
vow registered in heaven and faithfully kept on earth.
[Illustration]
A CLUSTER OF DAISIES.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
A CLUSTER OF DAISIES.
"WHAT are you thinking of, Frank?" said Mrs. Forster, looking at her
husband as he stood leaning against the casing of the window, gazing
thoughtfully out at the lovely garden beyond.
"Of a bad habit of mine," he answered.
"You have none; at least none that I cannot put up with," she said
playfully.
"That's not the question, dear Gertrude," he returned gravely. "It is
whether my Maker can put up with it, and I believe that He cannot,
since he has said He 'will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name
in vain.'"
Mrs. Forster colored as she bent her head over the sleeping baby on her
lap.
"You did not know, perhaps," her husband said, after a minute's
silence, "that I was ever guilty of this--sin?"
"I did know it, Frank; at least I have heard you now and then, when you
were speaking to your dogs and horses, or even when you were a little
impatient with the men. But you did not mean me to hear such words; and
I noticed you never used them in my presence."
"No," he said a little sadly: "I would not speak in my wife's presence
words which were not fit for her to hear; but I forgot an ear still
purer, which I was insulting and defying. That is the second thrust I
have had to-day, Gertrude, which has made me feel that I have treated
the Almighty with less of reverence and respect than I would show to
some of my fellow-creatures. Let me tell you of the innocent lesson I
received from the little flower-girl, who sent the daisies to you."
And sitting down beside her, he told her of the teaching which had come
to him from the little wayside blossom; to whose lonely, thirsting
heart his few kind words and smiles had been as drops of dew from
heaven.
But even while they talked of her and her pretty lady-like ways and
sayings, which seemed so far above her station, they did not know
she was a "Daisy," and that those were her namesakes over which Mrs.
Forster bent, dropping happy tears and kisses on them, mingled with
many a blessing on the little giver.
Plucking one of the flowers from the stem, she opened her baby's tiny
hand and placed it within it. The fairy fingers closed around it,
clasping it tight, while the unconscious little one slept on.
"Her name is Gertrude, but we'll call her Daisy, Frank, as soon as she
is old enough to be called any thing but baby," said the young mother,
"and her pretty pet name may serve as a reminder of this day's lesson,
if ever it should be forgotten."
"You think I may need it," said her husband, smiling. "I trust not; for
the sin, to say nothing of the vulgarity, of taking God's name in vain,
has been set forth so plainly by my innocent little teacher, that I
must have a short memory, indeed, if I failed to remember her lesson.
She thought _gentlemen_ must know better."
"But, dear," said the lady, "you said you would inquire about this
child, and see if we could not be of some use to her."
"So I did," he answered; "and so I will, and should have done long
since; but day after day I have let business or pleasure keep me till
I had but just time to catch the train, and none to bestow on the
poor little creature who seems to have been so grateful for the few
kind words I have given her. You think I am rather fanciful about
this child, I know, Gertrude; but I am convinced that some of her few
years must have been spent among different people than those by whom
she is now surrounded. Nor am I the only one of her customers who has
noticed the grace of her speech and manners, so uncommon in a child
of her class. Ward, and others beside, have seen it; but like myself
have never made it their business to see after her. However, to-morrow
afternoon, I shall make it a point to be at the depot in time to have a
talk with her. I wonder if the woman who keeps the fruit-stall at the
corner, and whose child I believe she is, would give her up and let her
go to school."
He was as good as his word; and more than an hour earlier than usual,
our little flower-girl saw "her gentleman" coming down the street
towards the depot. It was an eager, wistful little face, with some
questioning fear in it, that she raised to him, for she was anxious
lest she should have offended her kind friend, as she had learned to
think him, by her plain speech of the day before.
She had scarcely meant to speak so plainly; the words had seemed to
escape her without her intending it, and, it was true, had been drawn
forth by the gentleman's own questions; but when she remembered them
afterwards she feared that he would think her rude and disrespectful.
She need not have been afraid. His eye and voice were even kinder than
usual as he came near to her, and he laid his hand gently on her head,
saying,--
"Well, my little woman! and how does the world go with you to-day? The
lady told me to thank you very much for the daisies."
The young face brightened.
"Did she like them, sir?"
"Very much indeed,--all the more because she has a little one at home
whom she is going to call 'Daisy' after your pretty flowers."
"Is she your little girl, sir?"
"Yes, she is a mite of a Daisy, but a very precious one," he answered;
then looking into the flushed face, with its soft, shining eyes and
parted lips, he added, "You are a Daisy yourself."
The flowers she held dropped at her feet unheeded as she clasped both
hands upon her breast, and with quick-coming breath and filling eyes,
asked eagerly, "How _did_ you know it, sir? how did you know it?"
"Know what, my child? What troubles you?"
"How did you know I was Daisy?" she almost gasped.
"I did not know it," he answered in surprise. "Is your name Daisy? I
thought it was Margaret."
"They call me Margaret, sir,--Betty and Jack; but Daisy is my _own_,
_own_ name, that papa and mamma called me," she answered, recovering
herself a little.
"And where are your papa and mamma?" he asked. "I thought the woman who
keeps the fruit-stall at the corner was your mother."
"Oh, no, sir!" she said. "She is only Betty. She is very good to me,
but she is not mamma. Mamma was a lady," she added, with simple,
childish dignity, which told that she was a lady herself.
"But _where_ are your father and mother?" he repeated, with fresh
interest in the child.
"Mamma is drowned, sir; and we could never find papa," she answered,
with such pathos in her tones.
"Come into the depot with me," said General Forster: "I want to talk to
you."
She obeyed, and, taking up her basket, followed him into the
waiting-room, where, heedless of the many curious eyes around, he made
her sit down beside him, and drew from her her sad, simple story:--how
long, long ago she had lived with papa and mamma and her little brother
and baby sister in their own lovely home, far away from here; where it
was, she did not know, but in quite a different place from the great
bustling city which she had never seen till she came here with Betty
and Jack; how she had left home with mamma and the baby on a great
ship, where to go she could not remember; how Betty was on board, and
mamma had been kind to her; how a dreadful storm had come and there was
great confusion and terror; and then it seemed as if she went to sleep
for a long, long time, and knew nothing more till she found herself
living with Betty and Jack in their poor home far up in the city.
They had been very good to her, nursing and caring for her during the
many months she had been weak and ailing; and now that she was stronger
and better, she tried to help them all she could, keeping the two small
rooms tidy, while Betty was away attending to her stall; and in the
afternoon selling the flowers which Jack raised in his little garden,
and she arranged in tasteful bouquets. And, lastly, she told how from
the very first time she had seen General Forster, she thought he
"looked so like papa" that she felt as if she must love him, and was so
happy when he stopped to buy flowers of her and spoke kindly to her.
The story was told with a straightforward and simple pathos, which went
right to the listener's heart, and left him no doubt of its truth. But
the child could tell nothing of her own name or her parents', save that
she was always called "Daisy" at home, and that she had never since
heard the familiar name until to-day, when she thought this stranger
had given it to her. Betty and Jack always called her "Margaret;" and
Betty thought she knew mamma's name, but she did not. But she loved
daisies dearly for the sake of their name, which had been her own; and
she had raised and tended with loving care the little plant she had
given to "my gentleman" as a token of gratitude for his kindness, and
because he was "so like papa."
Having learned all that he could from the child herself, the gentleman
went to the fruit-woman on the corner.
"So," he said, "the little girl whom you call Margaret is not your own
daughter?"
"Indade, no, sir," answered Betty; "niver a daughter of me own have
I barrin' Jack, and he's not me own at all, but jist me sister's son
what died, lavin' him a babby on me hands. More betoken that it's not
a little lady like her that the likes of me would be raisin', unless
she'd none of her own to do it."
"Will you tell me how that came about?"
Betty told the story in her turn, in as plain and simple a manner as
the child's, though in language far different.
Her husband had been steward on a sailing vessel running between New
Orleans and New York; and about three years ago, she, being sick and
ordered change of air, had been allowed to go with him for the voyage.
But it made her worse instead of better; and on the return trip she
would have died, Betty declared, if it had not been for the kindness
and tender nursing of a lady, "Margaret's" mother. This lady--"her name
had been Saacyfut, she believed, but maybe she disremembered intirely,
for Marga_ret_ said it was not"--was on her way to New York with her
little girl who was sick, a baby, and a French nurse; but her home was
neither there nor in New Orleans,--at least so the child afterwards
said.
Her own account of the storm was the same as the child's; but while the
recollection of the little one could go no further, Betty remembered
only too well the horrors of that day.
When it was found that the ship must sink, and that all on board must
leave her, there had been, as the little girl said, great confusion.
How it was, Betty could not exactly tell; she had been placed in one
boat, the French nurse, with the child in her arms, beside her; and the
lady was about to follow with the infant, when a spar fell, striking
the Frenchwoman on the head and killing her instantly, knocking
overboard one of the three sailors who were in the boat,--while at the
same time the boat was parted from the ship and at the mercy of the
raging waves. In vain did the two sailors who were left try to regain
the ship: they were swept further and further away, and soon lost sight
of the vessel. They drifted about all night, and the next morning were
taken up by a fishing-smack which brought them to New York.
Fright and exposure and other hardships, while they seemed to have
cured Betty, were too much for the poor little girl, and a long and
terrible illness followed: after which she lay for months, too weak to
move or speak, and appearing to have lost all memory and sense. And
when at last she grew better and stronger, and reason and recollection
came back, she could not tell the name of her parents or her home.
"Marga_ret_ Saacyfut," Betty persisted in saying the French nurse had
called her little charge, "Mamsell Marga_ret_," "and if the lady's name
wasn't Saacyfut it was mightily nigh to it."
"Marguerite" had been the French woman's name for "Daisy:" that the
General saw plainly enough, but he could make nothing of the surname.
"But did you not seek for the child's friends, Betty?" he asked.
"'Deed did I, sir," she answered. "Didn't I even ad_ver_tise her, an'
how she was to be heerd of, but all to no good. An' I writ to New
Orleans to them what owned the ship, but they were that oncivil they
niver answered, not they. An' it took a hape of money, sir, to be
payin' the paper, an' me such hard work to get along, an' Marga_ret_ on
me hands, an' I had to be done with it. For ye see me man was gone wid
the ship, an' niver heerd of along wid the rest to this day; an' I had
to use up the bit he'd put by in the savin's bank till the child was
mendin' enough for me to lave her wid Jack."
"It was a very generous thing for you to burden yourself with the care
of her," said General Forster.
"Burden is it, sir? Niver a burden was she, the swate lamb, not even
when the sense had left her. An' that was what the neighbors was always
a sayin', and why didn't I put her in the hospital. An' why would I do
that after the mother of her savin' me from a buryin' in the say, which
I niver could abide. For sure if it hadn't been for the lady I'd 'a
died on the ould ship, and they'd 'a chucked me overboard widout sayin'
by your lave; and sure I'd niver have got over such a buryin' as that
all the days of me life. And would I be turnin' out her child afther
that? An' isn't she payin' me for it now, an' 'arnin' her livin,' an'
mine too? She an' Jack tends the bit of a garden, an' arternoons she
comes down an' sells her flowers, an' where'd be the heart to refuse
her wid her pretty ways and nice manners; a lady every inch of her,
like her mother before her."
And thrusting her head out from her stall, Betty gazed down the street
with admiring affection on her young _protégée_.
"Och! but she's the jewel of a child," she went on; "and it is
surprisin' how me and Jack is improved and become ginteel all along of
her. Ye see, sir, I did use to say a hape of words that maybe wer'n't
jist so; not that I meant 'em for swearin', but it was jist a way of
spakin'. But after Marga_ret_ began to mend and get about, ye would
have thought she was kilt intirely if I let one out of me mouth. So
seein' how it hurted her, I jist minded what I was about, an' Jack the
same, for he was a boy that swore awful, poor fellow; he'd been left to
himself, and how was he to know better? At first him and me minded our
tongues, for that the child shouldn't be hurted; but by and by didn't
she make it plain to us that it was the great Lord himself what we was
offendin', and knowin' she'd been tached better nor me, I jist heeded
her. And now, sir, them words that I never thought no harm of and used
to come so aisy, I jist leave them out of me spache widout troublin';
and a deal better it sounds, and widout doubt more plasin' to Him
that's above. And Jack the same mostly, though he does let one slip now
and agin. So ye see, sir, it's not a burden she is at all, at all, but
jist a little bit of light and comfort to the house that houlds her."
Glad to find a listener in a "gintleman the likes of him," Betty had
talked away to the gentlemen, so taken up with her story, that she paid
little heed to the business of her stall. She made wrong change more
than once, gave quarts instead of pints, oranges in place of apples,
and peanuts for sugar-plums, and provoked some impatient customers not
a little; while one wicked boy, seeing her attention was taken up with
something else, ran off without paying for the pop-corn he asked for,
and was not called back.
But Betty lost nothing by the time and thought she had given to the
gentleman, or the interest she had shown in her young charge, as she
found when she looked at the number upon the note he slipped into her
hand when he left her: a note which the warm-hearted Irishwoman laid by
"to buy that new gown and pair of shoes Margaret needed so bad."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III.
THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED.
"BETTY," said General Forster, stopping the next morning at the
fruit-woman's stall, "could you make up your mind to give up that
little girl if you were sure it was for her good?"
Betty sighed and shook her head mournfully as she answered,--
"I've always looked to give her up, sir, if them Saacyfuts, or whatever
their name'll be, turned up, and if it was for her good, sorra a word
would they hear out of me, though I won't say but it would go hard with
me and Jack. But ye'll not be tellin' me ye've been findin' her friends
since last night, sir?"
"Not the people she belongs to, certainly, Betty; but I have found
those who will be friends to her, and provide for her, if you will
consent. She should go to school and be well taught: do you not think
so?"
"Indade, an' there's none knows that better nor meself, sir. An' is it
yerself that's the friend ye're spakin' of?" and Betty gave a searching
look into the gentleman's face.
He smiled. "Yes," he said: "I would like to put her to school and take
care of her. She seems a sweet child, and a good one. And you see,
Betty, I have it in my power to do more to find her friends than you
are able to do, and we may trace them yet. If we never find them, I
will promise to provide for her as long as it may be necessary. Are you
willing?"
Betty again stared into the face of her questioner as if she would look
him through.
"I'm sinsible of your kindness, sir," she answered; "but ye see I'm
in a way risponsible for the child, not to say that she is as dear to
me as me own flesh and blood, and I'd say 'yis,' and thank ye kindly,
but--ye'll excuse me plain spakin'--ye're a stranger to me, and I
couldn't be partin' wid Marga_ret_ widout I was certified as to yer
ka_rac_ter. For if I didn't think she'd be brought up right, niver
a foot should she stir to go wid ye. I seen Miss Gertrude Allston a
walkin' wid ye once last summer, sir, jist after I set up me stand
here, but she niver heeded me wid her swate face. But I used to be
laundress in her mother's house afore I was married, and a swate child
was Miss Gertrude and a good as ye're sayin' of Marga_ret_, and she'll
niver go far wrong, I'll answer for it. So, if ye'll jist bring me a
line from her and she says ye're all right, I'll not say ye nay."
General Forster laughed heartily, not one whit offended at Betty's
"plain spakin'."
"Miss Gertrude Allston, as you call her, will give me all the lines you
want, Betty; and she thought me right enough to marry me. She is my
wife,--Mrs. Forster."
"An' is it so, sir?" said Betty, dropping the rosy-cheeked apple she
was polishing, and gazing at the gentleman with a mixture of curiosity
and admiration that was droll to see. "Well, but ye're in luck; and
if it's Miss Gertrude that has the managin' of ye, that's ka_rac_ter
enough of itself, an' I'll say take the child an' my blessin' on all
of yees. But when she gets among yer fine folks, ye'll not let her be
forgettin' the woman what cared for her when there was none else to do
it: will ye, sir? An' ye'll be lettin' me see her once in a while?"
There is no need to say that this was readily promised, and the General
went on to tell Betty what plans he and his wife had for Daisy. She
was to be taken for a while to his home, where Mrs. Forster would
provide her with proper clothing; and then send her to Miss Collins'
boarding-school to be taught and trained in a way to satisfy her
friends if they should ever find her, or that she might one day be able
to earn her own living, if it should be needful.
"An' I'm glad she should have the bringin' up of a lady which is what I
couldn't give her," said Betty, with another sigh, for it went to her
heart to part with her darling; "but ye'll not be able to make her more
of a lady nor she is now; no, not if ye dress her in gould and jewels,
an' silks an' satins. Niver a rough word nor way has she with her, if
she has been with me and Jack more nor two year, nor ye couldn't find a
purtier behaved child in all the land."
An hour or two later, Betty, having found a friend to "mind" her stall
for her, guided General Forster to the tiny house in the suburbs of the
city where she lived with Daisy and Jack.
The two children were out in the little garden gathering the flowers
which were to be tied up in bouquets for Daisy's afternoon sale; and
great was their surprise, when the sound of the gate-latch causing them
to look up, they saw Betty coming home at this unusual hour of the day,
and the gentleman with her. Their business was soon told; but although
Daisy flushed and smiled with astonishment and delight when she heard
what the "gentleman who looked so like papa" meant to do for her, the
little face soon shadowed over again, and she shook her head gently but
firmly when she was asked if she would go.
"An' why for no, dear?" asked Betty. "Sure ye'd niver be for throwin'
away a chance the likes of that, not to spake of it's bein' ongrateful
to the gintleman's kindness, an' he no more nor less than the husband
of Miss Gertrude."
But Daisy shook her head again; and then first begging the gentleman's
pardon, as a polite little girl should do, stepped up to her faithful
friend, and putting her arms about her neck whispered something in her
ear.
The tears she had before with trouble kept back now started to Betty's
eyes.
"Och, an' is it that, honey?" she said in her broadest brogue, "an'
ye'll not let that be thrubblin' yer dear heart. What a tinder,
grateful little sowl it is! Ye see, sir," she went on, turning to the
General, while she smoothed with her loving hand the little head which
lay upon her breast, "ye see, sir, it's just as I tellt ye. She's a
lady, every inch of her, an' has feelin's that's jist oncommon. An'
there's a matter of back rint jew, it's more'n a year, though me
landlord he's as good as gould, an' a bill at the poticary's, an'
little scores at the baker's an' grocers what I niver got paid off yet,
not since the child was sick an' I couldn't rightly make things go; an'
she says she won't be lavin' us now that she can turn a penny wid her
posies an' help along."
Drawing the child to him, General Forster whispered to her in his
turn, promising that the "back rint" and other "scores" should be paid
off without delay if she would but come with him; and Daisy, feeling
herself nearer home and friends than she had ever done since the
dreadful day of the shipwreck, when she was parted from "mamma," put
her hand trustingly in his to be led where he would.
But the parting went hard. Daisy could not leave those who had been
so kind, and shared their little all with her, without many a bitter
tear. Betty kissed her and clung to her and called down all heaven's
blessings on her head; and Jack hung over the gate, uttering frantic
howls as he watched the sobbing child led away by her new protector.
Not one thought gave Jack to his fourteen years; not one to the
"fellers from beyant the lot," who, drawn by his cries, came flocking
to see what ailed him who was all their terror and admiration: their
admiration, because he was bigger, stronger, braver than any other boy
of his age among their crew; their terror, because of late he allowed
no bad word to be used in his presence, banishing all who offended
in that way from their games, choosing as his favorites and chief
companions those who were most careful not to take God's name in vain.
So cursing and swearing had come to be much less frequent than of old
among the lanes and lots lying around the humble house where the little
Daisy had bloomed and grown during the last two years, dropping upon
the path which God had chosen for her good seed of which she knew not
herself.
Betty went back to her stand with a heavy heart, knowing that when
she went home that night she should miss the sweet little face which
had brightened and cheered her after many a hard day's work; but she
was half-consoled for her own loss when she saw Daisy coming down the
street holding General Forster's hand. For the General's first care had
been to take the little girl to a place where children's clothes could
be had ready-made; and where he had her fitted out, as Betty said, "as
nice as a new pin and as became the little lady she was by right."
But Daisy was as much a lady in the coarse but clean calico frock
and patched shoes she had worn yesterday, as she was now in the nice
clothes provided for her by General Forster; for it was the sweet
manners and pretty ways she had never lost which made her so, and the
new garments covered as warm and loving a little heart as the old
ones had done. And so Betty found, and knew that pride would have no
place there, when, as she reached the stand, Daisy drew her hand from
the gentleman's, and running behind the stall as she had many a time
done when she was eager to show Betty what a good afternoon's sale she
had made with her flowers, threw her arms about her neck and kissed
her again and again as lovingly as she had done when she had no other
friend in the world.
Gentle Mrs. Forster gave Daisy a warm welcome to her new home; and the
manner in which the child fell at once into the ways and habits of
those about her plainly showed that they were not new to her, but that
she had at some time been well accustomed to a different life than that
she had led for the last two years.
She had ways of her own, too, that were very charming: a pretty, dainty
grace in her behavior and speech; a thoughtfulness and care for others,
surprising in any child of her age,--for Daisy could not be more than
eight years old,--and particularly so for one who had had little
teaching for some time. It was easy to see that Daisy had received
careful training at one time, and that the lessons then learned had
taken deep root and were not yet forgotten in spite of the long
separation from her home and friends.
It had been intended, as General Forster told Betty, to send the little
girl to boarding-school at Miss Collins'; but she soon grew so closely
to the hearts of her new friends that they felt as if they could not
bear to part with her; and it was at last settled that her home was to
be with them for the present, at least, and that she should only go
to Miss Collins for the morning, as most of the other little girls in
Glenwood did.
Mrs. Forster could not bear to send from her this loving child, whose
greatest happiness seemed to be in making others happy, and she grew
every day more and more interesting as the familiar objects and customs
about her called up past recollections of the home and parents she
had lost. She would watch the General for hours at a time, as he sat
reading or writing, or follow him with wistful eyes as he mounted his
horse and rode down the broad avenue "just like papa;" would hang over
the lesser Daisy as she lay sleeping, "'cause she looks just as our
baby at home used to," and delighted to wait upon her and Mrs. Forster
in a dainty, neat-handed manner, which showed that such loving service
came quite naturally to her.
She never called the infant "baby," as the rest of the family did.
With her it was always "little Daisy." She seemed to love the pretty
name, either given to herself or another; and all the variety of choice
flowers with which General Forster's garden was filled could not win
her chief affection from her old favorite daisies, "'cause mamma loved
them so and named me after them."
But though she remembered so much, the child could not recall the name
of her parents, or where they had lived. Their name "was not what Betty
called it," she was sure; but none the less had it passed from her mind.
"Francine," the French bonne, used to call mamma "Madame," and herself
"Mademoiselle Marguerite;" but when she was asked what other people
used to call mamma and papa, the little face grew clouded and pained
with the effort to remember; and when name after name was mentioned to
her, she shook her head at each one.
The General tried by every means in his power to discover the friends
who must still be mourning the loss of their sweet little daisy
blossom, but all in vain; and as week after week went by, he and his
wife decided that they could not send her forth from their own roof
unless her relations came to claim her. She was an added ray of light
where all had been brightness and sunshine before,--a lovely, precious
little flower, lending new fragrance and beauty to the home where she
blossomed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS.
"GOODNESS gracious! mercy _me_!"
"I didn't mean to, Susy; 'pon my word and honor I didn't; just as sure
as I'm alive."
Such were the words uttered by two different little voices which our
Daisy heard, as holding by General Forster's hand, she reached the gate
of Miss Collins' garden on the first morning of her going to school in
Glenwood.
Now would it not have been thought that some terrible misfortune must
have called forth that exclamation from the first young speaker; or
that the second thought herself accused of some dreadful crime, and
that she must prove her innocence at once by all the strong words she
could think of, if she would escape severe punishment?
And what was this mighty matter?
Why, just this.
Susy Edwards and several of her schoolmates were "making a land of
Egypt." For of late the geography lesson of the young class had been
upon that country, and they had been much interested in the pictures
of the pyramids and Sphinx. And Susy, who "liked to make her knowledge
of use in her plays," and who was considered by the other children to
have a great genius in that way, had proposed that they should turn a
portion of their play-ground into Egypt. This was thought a capital
plan, and the recess of the day before had been employed in this
way,--the little planners and builders leaving it with great regret,
and returning to it before school-time that morning with fresh pleasure
and some new ideas.
The gravel walk was supposed to be the desert; the trough which led the
waste water from the spring, the River Nile; while a jointed wooden
doll, cruelly deprived for the purpose of all its limbs, had half of
its remainder buried in the gravel, to represent the Sphinx. Any number
of pyramids, four or five inches high, had been built out of pebbles,
and several were still going up.
And Lily Ward, the pet and darling of the school, the youngest child,
and till that day the newest scholar there, had brought that morning a
tiny doll's bath-tub, with a doll to match lying in it, saying it was
to be "Moses in the bulrushes, for it couldn't be a real land of Egypt
without a Moses."
Lily's idea was received with great applause and admiration, and she
felt rather proud of it herself when she heard it so much praised.
But a difficulty arose. The little tub did duty for the ark of
bulrushes most beautifully, it was "so real and so cunning;" and never
was a meeker baby than the one which lay so quietly within it. But he
must be hidden, and nothing could be found to answer for flags. The
grass about the mock River Nile was quite too short for that purpose,
trampled on as it was through each day's playtime by at least twenty
pairs of little feet; and the willow twigs which Lola Swan planted
would not stand up straight enough to make a shade for the ark.
"There isn't time to plant them deep enough," said Lola; "the
school-bell will ring in a few moments, and then we'll have to leave
it."
"And the sun will go and come round here before recess," said Lily, in
a tone of distress, "and Moses will be all sunburned. Besides, it isn't
a bit real: they never leave babies lying out in the sun."
"Put him out on the grass and turn the ark upside-down over him till we
come out again," said Susy.
But Lily scouted the idea of having her Moses treated in this way; and
all began at once to deepen the holes for the willow twigs before the
bell should ring.
But suddenly a bright thought struck Lily.
"Let's play Moses' mother and Miriam put a pyramid over him," she said.
"We could do that pretty quick, and it will be nice and shady for him,
and very real too, 'cause they did have pyramids in Egypt."
All agreed readily, for this was thought an excellent arrangement, and
they fell to work as fast as possible; while Bessie Norton whispered to
Violet Swan, "What a smart child Lily is, isn't she?"
"Yes," said Violet, in the same tone, "very; and I expect when she is
grown up she will do something very remarkable."
"What?" asked Susy Edwards, who heard them.
"Be a genius, I expect," answered Violet, solemnly.
"Oh, how nice!" said Bessie, who had not the least idea what genius
meant, but did not like to say so.
The pyramid over the sleeping Moses was nearly completed, the little
builders expecting each moment to hear the bell, when Lola Swan, coming
with a fresh supply of pebbles, tripped over a stick which lay upon the
grass, and, trying to recover herself, let her load fall around and
upon the half-built pyramid, knocking down half a dozen or so of the
stones which composed it. Not much harm was done, but Susy immediately
exclaimed,--
"Goodness gracious! mercy me!" and Lola answered as you have heard in
the words which met Daisy's ear as she and General Forster entered the
garden.
The click of the gate-latch caused all the children to look up, and
Moses and the pyramids were for the moment forgotten at the sight of
the new scholar.
"Why! there's Daisy Forster," said Lily, for Daisy was now known by
this name.
"I wonder if she's coming here to school," said another; and that
question was speedily answered, as, stopping by the little group, the
General, whom all knew and liked, said, "Here's a new schoolmate for
you. Will you be kind to her, and make her feel at home?"