SOME ACCOUNT OF A WATERFALL.
I wish that all little nurses were as trustworthy as Silverwing, or
as kind and patient with their charges! While Polly Bright has sat in
her mother’s cottage trimming her bonnet, till it looks as absurd as
pink ribbons can make it, the poor baby has been crying unheeded in
his cradle, except that now and then, when vexed more than usual by
the noise, with an almost angry look she pauses for a moment to rock
the cradle with her foot. She does not notice that little Johnny has
been clambering up by the pail, which her mother has set aside for her
washing, till the sudden sound of a fall, and a splash, and a child’s
frightened cry, startle her, and she sees little streams running all
over the stone floor, and Johnny flat on his face in the middle of a
loud roar,--and a pool of water.
[Illustration: A MISHAP.]
Up she jumps, not in the best of tempers. Poor Johnny is dragged up by
one arm, and receives one or two slaps on the back, which only makes
him cry louder than before; he stands a picture of childish misery,
with dripping dress and open mouth, the tears rolling down his rosy
cheeks, helpless and frightened, as his careless sister shakes and
scolds him, and shakes him again, for what was the effect of her own
negligence.
Happily for the little boy, Minnie Wingfield is a near neighbour, and
comes running at the sound of his distress.
“Why, what is the matter, my dear little man?” are her first words as
she enters the cottage.
“Look here! did you ever see anything like it? His dress clean on
to-day! I cannot turn my back for a moment but he must be at the
pail,--naughty, tiresome, mischievous boy!” and poor Johnny received
another shake. “A pretty state the cottage is in,--and there--oh, my
bonnet! my bonnet!” exclaimed Polly, as she saw that in her hurry and
anger she had thrown it down, and that, pink ribbons and all, it lay on
the floor, right across one of the little streams of water.
“Never mind the bonnet; the poor child may be hurt, and--oh, take care,
the baby will be wetted!” and without waiting for Polly’s tardy aid,
Minnie pushed the cradle beyond reach of danger.
While Polly was yet bemoaning her bonnet, and trying to straighten
out its damaged ribbons, Minnie had found out something dry for the
shivering little boy, had rubbed him, and comforted him, and taken him
upon her knee; then asking him to help her to quiet poor baby, had
hushed the sickly infant in her arms. Was there no pleasure to her kind
heart when its wailing gradually ceased, and the babe fell into a sweet
sleep,--or when Johnny put his plump arms tight round her neck, and
pressed his little lips to her cheek?
There are some called to do great deeds for mankind, some who bestow
thousands in charity, some who visit hospitals and prisons, and live
and die the benefactors of their race. But let not those who have
not power to perform anything _great_, imagine that because they can
do little, they need therefore do nothing to increase the sum of
happiness upon earth. There is a terrible amount of suffering caused by
neglect of, or unkindness to, little children. Their lives--often how
short!--are embittered by harshness, their tempers spoiled, sometimes
their health injured; and can those to whose care the helpless little
ones were confided, imagine that there is no sin in the petulant word,
the angry blow, or that many will not have one day to answer for all
the sorrow which they have caused to their Lord’s feeble lambs, to
those whose spring-time of life should be happy?
Would my readers like to know a little more of Minnie Wingfield, whose
look was so kind, whose words were so gentle, that her presence was
like sunshine wherever she went? She lived in a little white cottage
with a porch, round which twined roses and honeysuckle. There was a
little narrow seat just under this porch, where Minnie loved to sit
in the summer evenings with her work, or her book when her work was
done, listening to the blackbird that sang in the apple-tree, and the
humming of the bees amidst the blossoms. Little Minnie led a retired
life, but by no means a useless one. If her mother’s cottage was the
picture of neatness, it was Minnie who kept it so clean. Her brother’s
mended stockings, his nicely-washed shirts, all did credit to her neat
fingers. Yet she could find time to bestow on the garden, to trim the
borders, to water the plants, to tie up the flowers in which her sick
mother delighted. Nor did Minnie neglect the daily school. She was not
clever, but patient and ever anxious to please; her teacher regarded
her as one of her best scholars, and pointed her out as an example to
the rest. But Minnie’s great enjoyment was in the Sunday-school; there
she learned the lessons which made duty sweet to her, and helped her on
the right way through the week. The small Bible which had been given to
her by her father, with all his favourite verses marked, was a precious
companion to Minnie: not studied as a task-book, or carelessly read
as a matter of custom; but valued as a treasure, and consulted as a
friend, and made the rule and guide of daily life.
And was not Minnie happy? In one sense she certainly was so, but still
she had her share of this world’s trials. The kind father whom she
had fondly loved had died the year before; and besides the loss of so
dear a friend, his death had brought poverty upon his family. It was
a hard struggle to make up the rent of the little cottage, which Mrs.
Wingfield could not bear to quit, for did not everything there remind
her of her dear husband,--had he not himself made the porch and planted
the flowers that adorned it! Often on a cold winter’s day the little
fire would die out for want of fuel, and Minnie rise, still hungry,
from the simple meal which she had spared that there might be enough
for her parent and her brother.
[Illustration: MINNIE WITH THE FIREWOOD.]
Mrs. Wingfield’s state of health was another source of sorrow. She
was constantly ailing, and never felt well, and though saved every
trouble by her attentive child, and watched as tenderly as a lady
could have been, the sufferings of the poor woman made her peevish and
fretful, and sometimes even harsh to her gentle daughter.
Tom, her brother, was also no small trial to Minnie. Unlike her, he
had little thought for anything beyond self; he neither considered the
comfort nor the feelings of others. If Minnie was like sunshine in the
cottage of her mother, Tom too often resembled a bleak east wind; and
though Mrs. Wingfield and her daughter never admitted such a thought,
their home was happiest when Tom was not in it.
But it is time to return to our hive.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]