watching the reptile writhe with pain. "Will said there were sick
rebels in his hospital, and one was very kind to him. It says, too, in
my little book, 'Love your enemies.' I think snakes are mine, but I
guess I'll try and love him because God made him. Some boy will kill
him if I leave him here, and then perhaps his mother will be very sad
about it. Come, poor worm, I wish to help you, so be patient, and
don't frighten me."
Then Nelly laid her little handkerchief on the ground, and with a
stick gently lifted the wounded snake upon it, and, folding it
together, laid it in the ambulance. She was thoughtful after that, and
so busy puzzling her young head about the duty of loving those who
hate us, and being kind to those who are disagreeable or unkind, that
she went through the rest of the wood quite forgetful of her work. A
soft "Queek, queek!" made her look up and listen. The sound came from
the long meadow-grass, and, bending it carefully back, she found a
half-fledged bird, with one wing trailing on the ground, and its eyes
dim with pain or hunger.
"You darling thing, did you fall out of your nest and hurt your wing?"
cried Nelly, looking up into the single tree that stood near by. No
nest was to be seen, no parent birds hovered overhead, and little
Robin could only tell its troubles in that mournful "Queek, queek,
queek!"
Nelly ran to get both her chests, and, sitting down beside the bird,
tried to feed it. To her great joy it ate crumb after crumb, as if it
were half starved, and soon fluttered nearer with a confiding
fearlessness that made her very proud. Soon baby Robin seemed quite
comfortable, his eye brightened, he "queeked" no more, and but for the
drooping wing would have been himself again. With one of her bandages
Nelly bound both wings closely to his sides for fear he should hurt
himself by trying to fly; and though he seemed amazed at her
proceedings, he behaved very well, only staring at her, and ruffling
up his few feathers in a funny way that made her laugh. Then she had
to discover some way of accommodating her two larger patients so that
neither should hurt nor alarm the other. A bright thought came to her
after much pondering. Carefully lifting the handkerchief, she pinned
the two ends to the roof of the cart, and there swung little
Forked-tongue, while Rob lay easily below.
By this time Nelly began to wonder how it happened that she found so
many more injured things than ever before. But it never entered her
innocent head that Tony had searched the wood and meadow before she
was up, and laid most of these creatures ready to her hands, that she
might not be disappointed. She had not yet lost her faith in fairies,
so she fancied they too belonged to her small sisterhood, and
presently it did really seem impossible to doubt that the good folk
had been at work.
Coming to the bridge that crossed the brook, she stopped a moment to
watch the water ripple over the bright pebbles, the ferns bend down to
drink, and the funny tadpoles frolic in quieter nooks, where the sun
shone, and the dragon-flies swung among the rushes. When Nelly turned
to go on, her blue eyes opened wide, and the handle of the ambulance
dropped with a noise that caused a stout frog to skip into the water
heels over head.
Directly in the middle of the bridge was a pretty green tent, made of
two tall burdock leaves. The stems were stuck into cracks between the
boards, the tips were pinned together with a thorn, and one great
buttercup nodded in the doorway like a sleepy sentinel. Nelly stared
and smiled, listened, and looked about on every side. Nothing was seen
but the quiet meadow and the shady grove, nothing was heard but the
babble of the brook and the cheery music of the bobolinks.
"Yes," said Nelly softly to herself, "that is a fairy tent, and in it
I may find a baby elf sick with whooping-cough or scarlet-fever. How
splendid it would be! only I could never nurse such a dainty thing."
Stooping eagerly, she peeped over the buttercup's drowsy head, and saw
what seemed a tiny cock of hay. She had no time to feel disappointed,
for the haycock began to stir, and, looking nearer, she beheld two
silvery gray mites, who wagged wee tails, and stretched themselves as
if they had just waked up. Nelly knew that they were young field-mice,
and rejoiced over them, feeling rather relieved that no fairy had
appeared, though she still believed them to have had a hand in the
matter.
"I shall call the mice my Babes in the Wood, because they are lost and
covered up with leaves," said Nelly, as she laid them in her snuggest
bed, where they nestled close together, and fell fast asleep again.
Being very anxious to get home, that she might tell her adventures,
and show how great was the need of a sanitary commission in that
region, Nelly marched proudly up the avenue, and, having displayed her
load, hurried to the hospital, where another applicant was waiting for
her. On the step of the door lay a large turtle, with one claw gone,
and on his back was pasted a bit of paper, with his name,--"Commodore
Waddle, U. S. N." Nelly knew this was a joke of Will's, but welcomed
the ancient mariner, and called Tony to help her get him in.
All that morning they were very busy settling the new-comer, for both
people and books had to be consulted before they could decide what
diet and treatment was best for each. The winged contraband had taken
Nelly at her word, and flown away on the journey home. Little Rob was
put in a large cage, where he could use his legs, yet not injure his
lame wing. Forked-tongue lay under a wire cover, on sprigs of fennel,
for the gardener said that snakes were fond of it. The Babes in the
Wood were put to bed in one of the rush baskets, under a cotton-wool
coverlet. Greenback, the beetle, found ease for his unknown aches in
the warm heart of a rose, where he sunned himself all day. The
Commodore was made happy in a tub of water, grass, and stones, and Mr.
Fuzz was put in a well-ventilated glass box to decide whether he would
be a cocoon or not.
Tony had not been idle while his mistress was away, and he showed her
the hospital garden he had made close by, in which were cabbage,
nettle, and mignonette plants for the butterflies, flowering herbs for
the bees, chick-weed and hemp for the birds, catnip for the pussies,
and plenty of room left for whatever other patients might need. In the
afternoon, while Nelly did her task at lint-picking, talking busily to
Will as she worked, and interesting him in her affairs, Tony cleared a
pretty spot in the grove for the burying-ground, and made ready some
small bits of slate on which to write the names of those who died. He
did not have it ready an hour too soon, for at sunset two little
graves were needed, and Nurse Nelly shed tender tears for her first
losses as she laid the motherless mice in one smooth hollow, and the
gray-coated rebel in the other. She had learned to care for him
already, and when she found him dead, was very glad she had been kind
to him, hoping that he knew it, and died happier in her hospital than
all alone in the shadowy wood.
The rest of Nelly's patients prospered, and of the many added
afterward few died, because of Tony's skilful treatment and her own
faithful care. Every morning when the day proved fair the little
ambulance went out upon its charitable errand; every afternoon Nelly
worked for the human sufferers whom she loved; and every evening
brother Will read aloud to her from useful books, showed her wonders
with his microscope, or prescribed remedies for the patients, whom he
soon knew by name and took much interest in. It was Nelly's holiday;
but, though she studied no lessons, she learned much, and
unconsciously made her pretty play both an example and a rebuke for
others.
At first it seemed a childish pastime, and people laughed. But there
was something in the familiar words "sanitary," "hospital," and
"ambulance" that made them pleasant sounds to many ears. As reports of
Nelly's work went through the neighborhood, other children came to see
and copy her design. Rough lads looked ashamed when in her wards they
found harmless creatures hurt by them, and going out they said among
themselves, "We won't stone birds, chase butterflies, and drown the
girls' little cats any more, though we won't tell them so." And most
of the lads kept their word so well that people said there never had
been so many birds before as all that summer haunted wood and field.
Tender-hearted playmates brought their pets to be cured; even busy
farmers had a friendly word for the small charity, which reminded them
so sweetly of the great one which should never be forgotten; lonely
mothers sometimes looked out with wet eyes as the little ambulance
went by, recalling thoughts of absent sons who might be journeying
painfully to some far-off hospital, where brave women waited to tend
them with hands as willing, hearts as tender, as those the gentle
child gave to her self-appointed task.
At home the charm worked also. No more idle days for Nelly, or fretful
ones for Will, because the little sister would not neglect the
helpless creatures so dependent upon her, and the big brother was
ashamed to complain after watching the patience of these lesser
sufferers, and merrily said he would try to bear his own wound as
quietly and bravely as the "Commodore" bore his. Nelly never knew how
much good she had done Captain Will till he went away again in the
early autumn. Then he thanked her for it, and though she cried for joy
and sorrow she never forgot it, because he left something behind him
which always pleasantly reminded her of the double success her little
hospital had won.
When Will was gone and she had prayed softly in her heart that God
would keep him safe and bring him home again, she dried her tears and
went away to find comfort in the place where he had spent so many
happy hours with her. She had not been there before that day, and when
she reached the door she stood quite still and wanted very much to cry
again, for something beautiful had happened. She had often asked Will
for a motto for her hospital, and he had promised to find her one. She
thought he had forgotten it; but even in the hurry of that busy day he
had found time to do more than keep his word, while Nelly sat indoors,
lovingly brightening the tarnished buttons on the blue coat that had
seen so many battles.
Above the roof, where the doves cooed in the sun, now rustled a white
flag with the golden "S. C." shining on it as the wind tossed it to
and fro. Below, on the smooth panel of the door, a skilful pencil had
drawn two arching ferns, in whose soft shadow, poised upon a mushroom,
stood a little figure of Nurse Nelly, and underneath it another of Dr.
Tony bottling medicine, with spectacles upon his nose. Both hands of
the miniature Nelly were outstretched, as if beckoning to a train of
insects, birds and beasts, which was so long that it not only circled
round the lower rim of this fine sketch, but dwindled in the distance
to mere dots and lines. Such merry conceits as one found there! A
mouse bringing the tail it had lost in some cruel trap, a dor-bug with
a shade over its eyes, an invalid butterfly carried in a tiny litter
by long-legged spiders, a fat frog with gouty feet hopping upon
crutches, Jenny Wren sobbing in a nice handkerchief, as she brought
dear dead Cock Robin to be restored to life. Rabbits, lambs, cats,
calves, and turtles, all came trooping up to be healed by the
benevolent little maid who welcomed them so heartily.
Nelly laughed at these comical mites till the tears ran down her
cheeks, and thought she never could be tired of looking at them. But
presently she saw four lines clearly printed underneath her picture,
and her childish face grew sweetly serious as she read the words of a
great poet, which Will had made both compliment and motto:--
"He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all"
A FOX AND A RAVEN
By Rebecca Harding Davis
[_A raven, sitting high up on a limb, had a fine piece of cheese. He
was just going to enjoy it, when along came Mr. Fox. Now the fox
wanted the cheese, and he knew he could not catch the raven. So he
began to flatter the raven's croaking voice, and to beg the raven for
one of his "sweet songs." At last the poor raven, silly with flattery,
opened his mouth to sing--when lo! the cheese dropped to the ground,
and off ran the wily fox with the stolen treasure in his mouth. The
raven flew away, and never was heard of again._]
Donee was a king's daughter. She had heard her father talk of the
battles into which he had led his mighty warriors, and of how all the
world that she knew had once been his, from the hills behind which the
sun rose to the broad rushing river where it set. Now all of this
account was strictly true.
But the king, as he talked, wore no clothes but a muddy pair of cotton
trousers, and sat on a log in the sun, a pig rooting about his bare
feet. Black Joe, going by, called him a lazy old red-skin; and that
was true, too. But these differing accounts naturally confused Donee's
mind. When the old chief was dead, however, there was an end of all
talk of his warriors or battles. A large part of the land was left,
though; a long stretch of river bottom and forests, with but very
little swamp. Donee's brother, Oostogah, when he was in a good humor,
planted and hoed a field of corn (as he had no wife to do it for him),
and with a little fish and game, they managed to find enough to eat.
Oostogah and the little girl lived in a hut built of logs and mud,
and, as the floor of it never had been scrubbed, the grass actually
began to grow out of the dirt in the corners. There was a log
smouldering on the hearth, where Donee baked cakes of pounded corn and
beans in the ashes, and on the other side of the dark room was the
heap of straw where she slept. Besides this, there were two hacked
stumps of trees which served for chairs, and an iron pot out of which
they ate; and there you have the royal plenishing of _that_ palace.
All the other Indians had long ago gone West. Donee had nothing and
nobody to play with. She was as easily scared as a rabbit; yet
sometimes, when Oostogah was gone for days together, she was so lonely
that she would venture down through the swamp to peep out at the
water-mill and the two or three houses which the white people had
built. The miller, of all the white people, was the one that she liked
best to watch, he was so big and round, and jolly; and one day, when
he had met her in the path, he did not call her "Injun," or "red
nigger," as the others did, but had said: "Where's your brother, my
dear?" just as if she were white. She saw, sometimes, his two little
girls and boy playing about the mill-door, and they were round and
fat, and jolly, just like their father.
At last, one day Oostogah went down to the mill, and Donee plucked up
her courage and followed him. When she was there hiding close behind
the trough in which the horses were watered, so that nobody could see
her, she heard the miller say to her brother: "You ought to go to work
to clear your land, my lad. In two years there will be hundreds of
people moving in here, and you own the best part of the valley."
Oostogah nodded. "The whole country once belonged to my people."
"That's neither here nor there," said the miller. "Dead chickens don't
count for hatching. You go to work now and clear your land, and you
can sell it for enough to give you and this little girl behind the
trough an education. Enough to give you both a chance equal to any
white children."
Oostogah nodded again, but said nothing. He was shrewd enough, and
could work, too, when he was in the humor. "Come, Donee," he said.
But the miller's little Thad. and Jenny had found Donee behind the
trough, and the three were making a nettle basket together, and were
very well acquainted already.
"Let the child stay till you come back from fishing, Oostogah," said
the miller.
So Donee staid all the afternoon. Jenny and Betty rolled and shouted,
and could not talk fast enough with delight because they had this new
little girl to play with, and Thad. climbed all the trees, as Jenny
said, to "show off," and Betty tumbled into the trough head over heels
and was taken out dripping.
Donee was very quiet, but it was to her as if the end of the world had
come, all this was so happy and wonderful. She never had had anybody
to play with before.
Then, when Betty was carried in to be dried and dressed, there was,
too, the bright, cheerful room, with a lovely blue carpet on the
floor, and a white spread on the bed with fringe, and red dahlias that
shone in the sun, putting their heads in at the window. Betty's mother
did not scold when she took her wet clothes off, but said some funny
things which made them laugh. She looked at Donee now and then,
standing with her little hands clasped behind her back.
"Does your mother _never_ wash or dress you, Donee?" said Betty.
"She is dead," said Donee.
Betty's mother did not say any more funny things after that. When
she had finished dressing Betty, to the tying of her shoes, she called
the little Indian girl up to her.
"What can you do?" she said. "Sew? Make moccasins?"
She had the pleasantest voice. Donee was not at all afraid. "I can
sew. I can make baskets," she said. "I am going to make a basket for
every one of you."
"Very well. You can have a tea-party, Jenny, out of doors." Then she
opened a cupboard. "Here are the dishes," taking out a little box.
"And bread, jam, milk, sugar, and candy."
"Candy!" cried Betty, rushing out to tell Thad.
"Candy? Hooray!" shouted Thad.
For there are no shops out in that wild country where a boy can run
for a stick of lemon or gumdrops every time he gets a penny. It was
very seldom that Thad. or Betty could have a taste of those red and
white "bull's eyes" which their mother now took out of the jar in the
locked cupboard. They knew she brought it out to please the little
Indian girl, whose own mother was dead.
Jenny set the table for the tea-party under a big oak. There was a
flat place on one of the round roots that rose out of the moss, which
was the very thing for a table. So there she spread the little white
and gold plates and cups and saucers, with the meat dish (every bit as
large as your hand), in the middle, full of candy. The milk, of
course, was put in the pot for coffee, and set on three dead leaves to
boil; and Jenny allowed Donee to fill the jam dishes herself, with her
own hands. Donee could hardly get her breath as she did it.
When they were all ready they sat down. The sun shone, and the wind
was blowing, and the water of the mill-race flashed and gurgled as it
went by, and a song-sparrow perched himself on the fence close to them
and sang, and sang, just as if he knew what was going on.
"He wants to come to the party!" said Betty, and then they all
laughed. Donee laughed too.
The shining plates just fitted into the moss, and there was a little
pitcher, the round-bellied part of which was covered with sand, while
the handle and top were, Jenny said, of solid gold; that was put in
the middle of all.
Donee did not think it was like fairy-land or heaven, because she had
never in her life heard of fairy-land or heaven. She had never seen
anything but her own filthy hut, with its iron pot and wooden spoons.
When it was all over, the children's mother (Donee felt as if she was
her mother too) called her in, and took out of that same cupboard a
roll of the loveliest red calico.
"Now, Donee," she said, "if you can make yourself a dress of this I
will give you this box," and she opened a box, just like Jenny's.
Inside, packed in thin slips of paper, was a set of dishes; pure
white, with the tiniest rose-bud in the middle of each; cups, saucers,
meat-dish, coffee-pot, and all; and, below all, a pitcher, with sand
on the brown bottom, but the top and handle of solid gold!
Donee went back to the hut, trotting along beside Oostogah, her roll
of calico under her arm. The next day she cut it out into a slip and
began to sew.
Oostogah was at work all day cutting down dead trees. When he came in
at night, Donee said: "If you sold the land for much money, could we
have a home like the miller's?"
Oostogah was as much astonished as if a chicken had asked him a
question, but he said, "Yes."
"Would I be like Jenny and Betty?"
"You're a chief's daughter," grunted Oostogah.
One day in the next week she went down to the river far in the woods,
and took a bath, combing her long straight black hair down her
shoulders. Then she put on her new dress, and went down to the
miller's house. It was all very quiet, for the children were not
there, but their mother came to the door. She laughed out loud with
pleasure when she saw Donee. The red dress was just the right color
for her to wear with her dark skin and black hair. Her eyes were soft
and shy, and her bare feet and arms (like most Indian women's) pretty
enough to be copied in marble.
"You are a good child--you're a very good child! Here are the dishes.
I wish the children were at home. Sit right down on the step now and
eat a piece of pie."
But Donee could not eat the pie, her heart was so full.
"Hillo!" called the miller, when he saw her. "Why, what a nice girl
you are to-day, Dony! Your brother's hard at work, eh? It will all
come right, then."
Donee stood around for a long time, afraid to say what she wanted.
"What is it?" asked the miller's wife.
Donee managed to whisper, if she were to have a party the next day,
could the children come to it? and their mother said: "Certainly, in
the evening."
When the little girl ran down the hill, the miller said: "Seems as
if't would be easy to make Christians out of them two."
"I'm going to do what I can for Donee," said the miller's wife.
It was not so easy for the little red-skinned girl to have a party,
for she had neither jam nor bread, nor butter, not to mention candy.
But she was up very early the next morning, and made tiny little cakes
of corn, no bigger than your thumbnail, and she went to a hollow tree
she knew of and got a cupful of honey, and brought some red haws, and
heaps of nuts, hickory and chestnuts. When Oostogah had gone, she set
out her little dishes under a big oak, and dressed herself in her
lovely frock, though she knew the party could not begin for hours and
hours. The brown cakes and honey, and scarlet haws, were in the white
dishes, and the gold pitcher, with a big purple flower, was in the
middle. Donee sat down and looked at it all. In a year or two Oostogah
would build a house like the miller's, and she should have a blue
carpet on the floor, and a white bed, and wear red frocks every day,
like Betty.
Just then she heard voices talking. Oostogah had come back; he sat
upon a log; and the trader, who came around once a year, stood beside
him, a pack open at his feet. It was this peddler, Hawk, who was
talking.
"I tell you, Oostogy, the miller's a fool. There's no new settlers
coming here, and nobody wants your land. There's hundreds and
thousands of acres beyond better than this. You'd better take my
offer. Look at that suit!"
He held up short trousers of blue cloth worked with colored porcupine
quills, and a scarlet mantle glittering with beads and gold fringe.
"I don't want it," grunted Oostogah. "Sell my land for big pile
money."
"Oh, very well. I don't want to buy your land. There's thousands of
acres to be had for the asking, but there's not such a dress as that
in the United States. I had that dress made on purpose for you,
Oostogy. I said: 'Make me a dress for the son of a great chief. The
handsomest man'" (eying the lad from head to foot) "'that lives this
side of the great water.'"
Oostogah grunted, but his eyes began to sparkle.
"Here now, Oostogy, just try it on to please me. I'd like to see you
dressed like a chief for once."
Oostogah, nothing loth, dropped his dirty blanket, and was soon rigged
in the glittering finery, while Hawk nodded in rapt admiration.
"There's not a man in the country, red-skin or pale-face, but would
know you for the son of the great Denomah. Go look down in the creek,
Oostogy."
Oostogah went, and came back, walking more slowly. He began to take
off his mantle.
"There's a deputation from these Northern tribes going this winter to
see the Great Father at Washington. If Oostogy had a proper dress he
could go. But shall the son of Denomah come before the Great Father in
a torn horse-blanket?"