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HAPPY DAYS
FOR
BOYS AND GIRLS.
[Illustration: {Three children playing}]
136 ILLUSTRATIONS
CONTRIBUTIONS BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT, ALICE AND PHOEBE CAREY, C. A. STEPHENS,
MARY N. PRESCOTT, WILLIAM M. THAYER, F. CHESEBORO,
J. G. WOOD, S. W. LANDER, and others.
PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES,
822 CHESTNUT STREET.
Copyright, 1877,
BY HORACE B. FULLER AND PORTER & COATES.
PRESS OF
HENRY B. ASHMEAD.
PHILADELPHIA.
[Illustration: YOUNG FISHERS.]
[Illustration: {A bird and nestlings}]
CONTENTS.
PROSE.
PAGE
Accident, The _Louisa M. Alcott_ 280
Adventure in the Life of Salvator
Rosa _L. D. L._ 84
African Elephant, The _J. G. Wood_ 319
Animal in Armor, The 75
Aunt Thankful _M. H._ 253
Barn Swallows _W. Wander_ 194
Birds _F. F. E._ 25
"Bitters" 203
Books and Reading 36
Bruin at a Maple-Sugar Party _C. A. Stephens_ 313
Camels _J. G. Wood_ 339
Cave at Benton's Ridge _F. E. S._ 350
Charley 368
Charlie's Escape 109
Charlie's Christmas 79
Crippled Boy, The _S. W. Lander_ 374
Daisy's Temptation 111
Daring Feat 183
Davy Boys' Fishing-Pond _L. M. D._ 130
Envy Punished 271
Every Cloud has a Silver Lining 31
Faithful Friends _X._ 237
Fairy Bird, The _Louisa M. Alcott_ 207
Fred and Dog Stephen 205
Giraffe, The _J. G. Wood_ 188
Going for the Letters 198
Good Word not Lost 308
Gratitude of a Cow 196
Haunts of Wild Beasts _C. A. Stephens_ 355
Help Yourselves _Wm. M. Thayer_ 46
Holiday Luck _Sara Conant_ 296
How a Good Dinner was Lost _Fannie Benedict_ 256
How Maggie paid the Rent 227
[Illustration: {Children sledding}]
How Sweetie's "Ship came In" _Margaret Field_ 96
Hunting Adventure 362
If; or, Bessie Green's Holiday 176
Iron Ring, The _A. L. O. E._ 76
It takes Two to Make a Quarrel 306
John Stocks and the Bison _Author of "Drifting
to Sea"_ 138
Kindness Rewarded 28
Kindness to Animals _Robert Handy_ 284
Lace-making 44
Lame Susie 261
Lion the Fire-dog _Benjamin Clarke_ 38
Lion on the Threshold 190
Marcellin 82
Merry Christmas _E. G. C._ 166
Monkeys _L. B. U._ 301
Motherless Boy, The 49
Mouse and Canary, The 287
Mrs. Pike's Prisoners _M. R. W._ 123
My Mother's Stories _E. E._ 303
My Story _S. P. Brigham_ 332
Nearly Lost 365
Neddy's Half Holiday 121
Nicolo's Little Friend _H. A. F._ 390
Nino _Sara Conant_ 244
Orchard's Grandmother _S. O. J._ 9
Parsees, The 371
Polly Arrives _Louisa M. Alcott_ 282
Ponto 310
Puppet _Mary B. Harris_ 162
Puss _Robert Handy_ 293
Que _Mary B. Harris_ 144
Reason and Instinct _Flaneur_ 60
Reginald's First School-Days 384
Rough _M. R. O._ 17
Sally Sunbeam 251
Saved by a Fiddle _Sir Lascelles Wraxall_ 211
Song of the Bird 323
Squanko _F. Cheseboro_ 274
Squirrels 160
St. Bernard Dog 53
Stitching and Teaching _E. G. C._ 152
Stories about Dogs 137
Strange Combat, A _C. A. Stephens_ 116
Sweet One for Polly _Louisa M. Alcott_ 277
[Illustration: {Two children having a picnic}]
Thorns 347
Tim the Match-Boy 268
Truant, The 393
Two Friends. A Story for Boys 288
Two Gentlemen in Fur Cloaks 107
Uncle John's School-Days 234
What Nelly gave Away 115
White Butterfly 63
Wings 273
Working is Better than Wishing 65
Young Artist, The 218
POETRY.
All among the Hay 286
Annie 175
Answer to a Child's Question 113
Bird's Nest, The _Mary. N. Prescott_ 216
C--A--T 186
Cherry-Time 128
Child's Petition 392
Child's Prayer 137
Children 62
Children's Song 141
Cleopatra _Edgar Fawcett_ 388
Common Things 249
Coral-Workers, The 37
Counting Baby's Toes 345
Dinner and a Kiss 381
Dream of Summer, A _Mary N. Prescott_ 29
Erl King _Mary N. Prescott_ 241
Faithful unto Death; or, The Sentry
of Herculaneum _W. B. B. Stevens_ 230
Flight of the Birds 56
For the Children 58
Forced Rabbit, The 180
From Bad to Worse _Alice Cary_ 331
Frost, The 22
Good-Humor 35
Good Shepherd, The 52
I am Coming 110
Kind to Everything 68
Let him Live _Mary R. Whittlesey_ 300
Little Helpers 73
Little Home-body _Geo. Cooper_ 119
[Illustration: {Two figures walk through a snowy landscape}]
Little Red Riding-Hood _L. E. Landon_ 224
My Little Hero 92
My Mother 382
Minutes 196
My Picture 23
Music Lesson, The 22
Nothing to Do 105
Now the Sun is Sinking 206
Our Daily Bread 157
Preparing for Christmas 143
Rich and Poor _Ellen M. H. Gates_ 42
Rigmarole about a Tea-Party 206
Robin Redbreast 95
Rustic Mirror, The _M. R. W._ 222
Sailing the Boats _George Cooper_ 305
Secret _Mary R. Whittlesey_ 264
Shakspeare _Richard H. Stoddard_ 389
Sheep and the Goat 328
Silly Young Rabbit, The 242
Silver and Gold _Ellis Gray_ 265
Smiles and Tears 390
Snow-Fall 151
Snow-Man, The _Marian Douglas_ 192
Song of the Rose _T. E. D._ 41
Sparrow, The 122
Spring has Come 202
Story of Johnny Dawdle 47
Summer 78
That Calf _Phoebe Cary_ 70
To the Cardinal Flower _M. R. W._ 40
Touch Not 61
Two Mornings _Mary N. Prescott_ 267
Under the Pear Trees 349
Up and Doing 182
Vacation _Beverly Moore_ 232
War and Peace 126
Way to Walk _M. R. W._ 337
We should hear the Angels singing _Kate Cameron_ 91
What so Sweet _Mary N. Prescott_ 344
What the Clock says 149
Why 24
Willie's Prayer 159
World, The _Lilliput Lectures_ 185
Worship of Nature 361
HAPPY DAYS.
[Illustration: {Settlers run from the native inhabitants}]
THE ORCHARD'S GRANDMOTHER.
I must ask you to go back more than two hundred years, and watch two
people in a quiet old English garden.
One is an old lady reading. In her young days she was a famous beauty.
That was very long ago, to be sure; but I think she is a beauty
still--do not you?
She has such a lovely face, and her eyes are so sweet and bright! and
better than that, they are the kind which see pleasant things in
everybody, and something to like and be interested in. I hope with all
my heart yours are that kind, too.
The other person is a little child. She was christened Mary Brenton,
like her grandmother; but she was called Polly all her days, for
short; and we will call her so.
She is sitting on the grass with a little cat in her arms, which she
is trying to put to sleep. But the kitten is not so accommodating as
a doll would be, and just as Polly does not dare to move for fear of
waking her, she makes up her mind that a run after a leaf and a play
with any chance caterpillar which may be so unlucky as to cross her
path, will be very preferable, and tries to get away.
It is one of the most delightful days that ever was. September, and
almost too warm, if it were not for the breeze that brings cooler air
from the sea. Once in a while some fruit falls from the heavily-laden
trees, and the first dead leaves rustle a little on the ground. The
bees are busy, making the most of the bright day; for they know of the
stormy weather coming. The sky is very blue, and the flowers very
bright. Two swallows are playing hide-and-seek through the orchard,
and chasing each other in great races, now so close to the ground that
it seems as if their feet might catch in the green grass, and now away
up in the air over the high walls out towards the hills; and just as
one loses sight of them, and turns away, here they are again. And in
the kitchen the girls are clattering the dishes and laughing; and do
you hear some one singing a doleful tune in a cheery, happy voice?
That is Dorothy, Polly's dear Dorothy, who waits upon grandmother,
with whom she has been to France, and Holland, and Scotland, and who
can tell almost as charming stories as grandmother herself.
The house is large and old, with queer-shaped windows, all sizes and
all heights from the ground, and a great many of them hidden by the
ivy. That is the outside; and if you were to go in, you would find
large, low rooms, filled with furniture that you would think queer and
uncomfortable. And there are portraits in some of them, one of Polly,
probably painted not very long before, in which she is attired after
the fashion of those days, and looks nearly as old as she would now
if she were living!
Now let us go back to the garden. The kitten has escaped, and Polly is
wishing for something to do.
"Where's Dolly?" says grandmother. "Find her, and then gather some
apples and plums, and have a tea drinking."
The doll had been very ill all day; it was strange in grandmother to
forget it. She had fallen asleep just before dinner, and been put
carefully in her bed; it would never do to wake her so soon. And
besides, a tea party was not amusing when there was no one to sit at
the other end of the table. This referred to Tom, Polly's dearest
cousin, who had just left her after a long visit; and she missed him
sadly.
"And," says Polly, "I do not think I should care for it if he were
here, if I could have nothing but apples. I'm tired of them. I have
eaten one of every kind in the garden to-day, even the great yellow
ones by the lower gate. I think they're disagreeable; but I left them
till the very last, and then I was afraid they would feel sorry to be
left out. I think I will eat another, though; and I will not have a
party--it's a trouble. Which kind would you take, grandmother?"
"One of the very smallest," says the old lady, laughing; "but stop a
moment. I have one I'll give you;" and she took a beauty from her
pocket, and threw it on the grass by Polly.
"That's the very prettiest apple I ever saw," says the child. "Where
did you get it? Not off our trees. 'Father gave it to you?' and where
did he find it?"
Grandmother did not know.
[Illustration: LITTLE POLLY.]
After admiring her apple a little more, Polly eats it in a most
deliberate manner, enjoying every bite as if it were the first she had
eaten that day, and when she has finished it, gives a contented little
sigh, and sits looking at the fine brown seeds which she holds in
her hand. Presently she says, earnestly,--
"Grandmother!"
"What now, Polly?"
"I wish I had that dear little apple's two brothers and two sisters,
and I would put them in the doll's chest until to-morrow; I wouldn't
eat them to-day, you know."
"I will tell you what you can do," says grandmother. "Are those seeds
in your hand? Go find Dorothy, and ask her to give you the empty
flower-pot from the high shelf at my window; and then you can fill it
with dark earth from one of the flower-beds, and plant them; then by
and by you will have a tree, and can have plenty of your apple's
children."
That was a happy thought. And Polly puts the seeds carefully on a
leaf, and runs to find Dorothy. Now she comes back with a queer little
Dutch china flower-pot, and sits down on the grass again, and makes a
hole in the soft brown earth with her finger, and drops the fine seeds
in.
For days she watered them, and carried them to sunny places; but at
last she grew very impatient, and one morning, when she was all alone
in the garden, very much provoked that they had not made their
appearance, took a twig and explored; and the first poke brought to
light the little seeds, as shiny and brown as when they left the
apple. It was a great disappointment, and Polly caught them up, and
threw them as far away as she could, and with tears in her eyes ran in
to tell grandmother.
"Ah," said the dear old lady, "it was not time! Thou hast not learned
thy lesson of waiting; and no wonder, when there are few so hard, and
thou art still so young."
Then she sent Polly back to the garden, and the pot was put in its
place, again. And a week or two after, as grandmother was just going
to make room in the earth for a new plant, she saw growing there a
little green sprig, which was not a weed. She listened a moment, and
heard the child's voice outside.
"Polly, my dear, are you sure you scattered all the seeds of your
pretty apple the day you were so provoked at their not having begun to
grow for you?"
The child reddened a little, and turned away.
"I don't know, grandmother. I think so; I wished to then."
How delighted she was when the old lady showed her the treasure, and
how carefully it was watched and tended! For one little seed had been
buried deeper than the rest, and now in the sunshine of grandmother's
wide window it had come up. Every pleasant day it was placed somewhere
in the sun, and at night it was always carried to Polly's own room.
Her dolls and other old play-house friends, formerly much honored, and
of great consequence, were quite neglected for "the apple tree," as
she always called the tiny thing with its few bits of leaves.
And now we must leave the Brentons' old stone house and the garden.
All this happened in the days of King Charles I., when there was a
great war, and the country in a highly discordant state. Polly's
father was on the king's side, and one day he did something which was
considered particularly unpardonable by his enemies, and at night he
came riding from Oxford in the greatest hurry he had ever been in; and
riding after him were some of Cromwell's men. It was bright moonlight,
and as he rode in the paved yard the great dogs in their kennels began
to bark, and that waked Polly's mother, in a terrible fright at
hearing her husband's voice, and sure something undesirable had
happened.
Squire Brenton hurried in to tell her, in as few words as possible,
what he had done, and that he was followed, and had just time to say
good by, and take another horse, and rush on to the sea, where he
hoped to find a fishing-boat, by means of which he could escape.
"And you," said he, "had better take Polly and one of the men, and
ride to your cousin Matthew's; for in their rage at my escape, they
may mean to burn my house. I little thought a month ago,--when he
offered you 'a safe home,' and I laughed in his face, and said, 'Give
your good wife the same message; for she may not find your house so
safe as mine by and by,'--that you would need to accept so soon."
"But I cannot go there now," said Mistress Brenton; "for cousin
Matthew is away with the Roundhead army, and his wife and sister have
gone to the north. I'll go with you. Listen: I heard one of the maids
say to-day that a ship sails to-morrow at daybreak from the bay by
Dunner's with a company of Puritans for Holland, on their way to one
of the American colonies. We will go for a time to our friends in
Amsterdam, and be quite safe."
Anything was better than staying where he was; and Squire Brenton,
bidding her hurry, went to the stables with his tired horse, and
waking one of his men whom he could trust, told him why he was there,
and to say, when the men came, that he was in Oxford yesterday, when
they had a letter, and that Mistress Brenton had gone north to some
friends. He gave him some messages for his brother, and then, sending
him out to a field with the horse he had been riding, which would
certainly have betrayed him, he went back to the yard, trying to keep
the two fresh horses still, while he listened, fearing every moment to
hear his pursuers coming down the road.
Presently out came Mistress Brenton, carrying some bundles of
clothing, and a few little things besides, and wrapped in a great
riding cloak; and at her side walked Polly, very sleepy, and looking
wonderingly in the faces of the others, and asking all manner of
childish questions.
Suddenly she ran back to the house, just as her father was going to
lift her on his horse; and when she came back, what do you think she
had? Together in a little bag were her doll and kitten, and one arm
held tightly her little apple tree, wrapped in some garment of her own
which she had found lying near it.
And then they rode away. The poor child, after begging them to go to
her uncle's, so she might say good by to grandmother, fell asleep,
holding fast her treasures all the while.
There was a faint glimmer of light over the sea as they neared the
shore, and they saw anchored at a little distance a small ship, and
could see the men moving about her deck; for the wind had risen. Mr.
Brenton found a man whom he knew, in whose charge he left the horses,
and then a fisherman rowed them to the vessel.
The captain was nowhere to be seen, and the sailors paid no attention
to them as they came on deck in the chilly morning twilight; and they
went immediately below, and hid themselves in a dark corner, thinking
they might have to go ashore if discovered, and that it was best to
keep out of sight until it was too late to turn back. In the darkness
they fell asleep. This may seem very strange; but remembering the long
ride, and the fright they had been in, and that now they felt safe, we
can hardly wonder. At any rate, it was the middle of the afternoon
before Colonel Brenton--I think I have never given him his title
before--made his appearance on deck, to the great astonishment of the
captain and all the other people, who knew him more or less. He told
the captain what had happened, saying at the end he would pay him
double the usual passage money to Holland, where he meant to stay for
a while; and at this the rough man really turned pale.
"Holland, _Holland_!" said he; "do you not see we're going down the
Channel? We are bound direct for America."
The story says that Colonel Brenton was almost beside himself, and
offered large sums of money to be taken back, or to France; but the
captain would not consent, saying that they had made good progress,
and it was late in the year. The ship would come back in the spring,
and he must content himself.
Those of the ship's company who knew our friends had great wonderings
at their having turned Puritans, until they knew the true state of
affairs. Must not it have been dreadful news to Mistress Brenton, and
was it not really a dreary prospect--a dreary journey in that frail
ship, and at the end a cold, forlorn country? and all the stories of
the Indians' cruelties to the settlers came to her mind. They could
not, in all probability, return for many months. No one whom she cared
particularly for would be there to welcome them. Polly did not take it
very much to heart, though she cried a little because she was not to
go to Holland, which she had heard so much of from her grandmother and
Dorothy. It was a great many days before they gave up their hope of
falling in with some vessel to which they might be transferred; and
the first two weeks were sunshiny and pleasant, with a good wind. But
soon it grew bleaker and colder, and they suffered greatly. All
through the pleasant days, Polly had been having a very enjoyable
time. There were several children on board, and they had games around
the deck and in the cabin.
It was delightful to have the kitten, who had a cord tied around her
neck; and when she was not in Polly's arms, she was generally anchored
for safety in the cabin. Every day she had part of her little
mistress's dinner; and though she missed the garden, and the dead
leaves that nestled about the walks, and made such nice playthings,
and the sedate old family cat, her mother, and her mother's numerous
poor relations who lived in the stables, she was by no means unhappy.
And the doll's expression was as complacent as ever, though she had
worn one gown an astonishing length of time. But if you could have
seen the care the little tree received! It was carefully wrapped in
the same little cloak Polly put round it the night they left home, and
only on the warmest days it was taken on deck to have the sunshine;
and every day it had part of Polly's small allowance of water; and
when the kitten had had its share, there would often be very little
left.
The weary days went slowly by. The ship was slow at the best, and the
winds were contrary. The provisions grew less and less, and the water
was almost exhausted. Two people--a man, and a child Polly had grown
very fond of--died, and were buried in the sea. The sky was cold and
gray, and it snowed and rained, and every one looked sad and
disheartened. It was terribly desolate. Polly could not often go on
deck, for the frozen spray and rain made it very slippery and
dangerous there; and her mother told story after story, and did her
best to shorten the longest December days she had ever known. And soon
there came a terrible bereavement. One night there was a great storm,
and the dearly-beloved kitten, frightened to death by the things
rolling about, and the pitching of the ship, broke the cord and rushed
out in the darkness, and never was seen any more. I think a little cat
has never been so mourned since the world began. That night, the Dutch
flower-pot, with its leafless twig, went rolling about the cabin
floor, and half the earth was scattered in the folds of its
wrappings, and carefully replaced next morning.
But at last the voyage was ended; they saw land, and finally came
close to it and went ashore, Polly with her dear doll and something
else rolled up in a little gray cloak. The ship was to stay until
spring; and there seemed no hope of getting back to England until
then. It was hard to decide what to do; but at last Colonel Brenton
heard of some men whom he had known, who had been made prisoners in
some of the battles in the north of England and sent to the
Massachusetts colony by Cromwell, who had feared to imprison them.
They had been sent to the settlement in York.
So the Brentons joined a party going there, or to places beyond. It
was the last of January that they came to York, and were warmly
welcomed at the great garrison, where they lived till spring. Polly
found a very nice child to play with. There had been a good harvest,
and the Indians were uncommonly peaceable. They had great log fires in
the wide fireplace in the east room; and for a winter in those times,
it was very comfortable. The flower-pot was deposited in a chink of
the great chimney. Polly had insisted upon bringing it with her; and
though "the tree" at that time was a slender little straight stick,
she had firm faith that spring time would give it leaves again. And
strange to say, she was not disappointed; for all the exposure had not
destroyed it. The first of June came, and they were still living in
the garrison-house, looking every day for a messenger to tell them the
ship was ready to go back. Some people on their way to one of the
eastern settlements, early in April, had told them there were no signs
of her sailing; and since then they had heard nothing. How dismayed
they were, early in June, to find the ship had sailed nearly two
months before! It seemed as if everything was against them; and they
could live no longer in the garrison. So the Brentons had a little log
house near by, and "the squire" worked every day in the great field
down towards the river. It must have been such a strange life for
them! and I suppose their thoughts often went back to the dear English
home. When Mistress Brenton looked from the small window in her log
house out over half-cleared fields, and saw the garrison-house, and
her husband working among the hills of corn with his gun close by,
every now and then looking anxiously about him, she would remember the
wide window, with its cushioned seat, in her own room at home, and the
sunny garden, with the flowers and bees, and the maids and men singing
and chattering in the distance, and the dear voice of grandmother
singing the old church hymns. It was a great change; but days much
more forlorn than these were yet to come.
The Indians came around the settlement in large numbers, and no one
dared to be out alone. At night the people waked in fear at the
slightest noise; and in the daytime it was after the same fashion.
News came of whole settlements having been murdered or made captives,
and some of their own neighbors disappeared finally; and then the
suspense was terrible. At last, one day Mrs. Brenton had gone up to
the garrison to see one of the women, who was ill, and most of the men
were in the field. Polly went with her mother; but the women were
talking over something about the king and Parliament, which she found
very uninteresting, and soon she unfastened the great outer door, and
unwisely ran out with her doll in her arms, and went down to the field
to see the men at work. But on her way, she bethought herself of a
charming stump she had seen out at one side of the path, and went to
visit it. None of the men happened to see her. She talked to the
doll, and made a throne for her of the soft moss growing around her,
and had been playing there some time, when suddenly she heard shouts,
and thought they must be killing a snake, and looked up to see all the
men running up the hill to the garrison, with a great many Indians
chasing them; and she heard a gun fired, and saw one of the men who
had petted and been very kind to her, and told her stories, fall to
the ground. Ah, how frightened she was!
The doll was snatched from her throne, and the poor little girl ran
towards the garrison, too, right towards the Indians. It was weary
work running over the rough ground,--and the tall grass was not much
better,--and then on, up the hill. By this time the men had succeeded
in getting in; and the wicked-looking Indians, after a yell of
disappointment, turned to go back to the one who lay dead on the
hill-side, and to escape the bullets which would come in a moment from
the loopholes. O, if she could only get by them!
Up the hill she hurried as fast as the poor tired little feet could
carry her, hugging the doll, almost breathless, with the great tears
falling very fast, and still crying, "Wait, father!"
I am glad I know one kind thing the Indians of those days did. As they
turned, they saw her coming, and some hurried forward a little to
seize her; and it would have been so easy. But one spoke, and they all
stopped, and laughed, and shouted, and the child got safely in.
Then the Indians went to the Brentons' house, and some others, and
burned them; but luckily the apple tree was at the play-house, by a
large rock, at a little distance, and the wind was not in that
direction; and after they disappeared, it was brought up to the fort,
safe and sound.
It soon grew tall and strong, and in a little while was entirely too
large for its pot; and finally Polly was forced to put it in the
ground. It was hard to do it; for she had cared for it, and loved it
so long, and this was giving it up, in a measure. And I think if she
had understood that now it must be left behind, it would have been
almost impossible to have persuaded her. Her father comforted her by
telling her he could get quantities of the apples not very far from
home, and she could plant more seeds as soon as she liked, or, far
better than that, he would graft a tree.
In September, news came that a ship was going to the east coast of
England; and they were all heartily glad, in spite of the long,
dangerous voyage; and leaving the York friends, who had been so kind,
and whom they would probably never see any more, Polly gave the little
tree to a Masterson child, her great friend, who promised to wrap it
in straw for winter, and to be very kind to it and fond of it. And I
think she must have been faithful to her charge. Mistress Brenton laid
some of the leaves in the little book she had had in her pocket that
night, almost a year ago, when they left home. So they went to Boston,
and sailed for the old country.
I know nothing more of them; but we will hope their voyage was a short
and easy one, and that they reached home on a pleasant, sunny day, and
grandmother was there, and Dorothy, and all the people, and Polly had
stories to tell as wonderful as Dorothy's, and all true, and that they
were all happy forever after.
A while ago I stood on the hill with an old farmer, eating one of a
pocketful of apples he had given me, and said how very nice it was,
and that I had never seen any like it.
"There are none of my apples sell half so well," said he. "I've forty
young trees that have been bearing a few years; and over to the right
you see some old ones. Mine were grafted from those and my father
took his grafts from an old tree I'd like to show you;" and as we
walked towards it, he said, "It looks, and I guess it is, as old as
any around here. My father always said it was brought from England in
a flower-pot by some of the first settlers. Perhaps you have heard the
story. It's very shaky. The high winds last fall were pretty hard on
it. It will never bear again, I am afraid. I set a good deal by the
old thing. The very first thing I can remember is my father's lifting
me up to one of the lower limbs, and I was frightened and cried. I
believe I think more of that tree than of anything on my farm. My wife
always laughs at me about it. Well, it has lasted my time. I'm old and
shaky, too; and I suppose my sons won't miss this much, and will like
the young orchard best."
"And you and I like your orchard's grandmother," said I.
S. O. J.
ROUGH.
He was a donkey, and we called him Rough. He belonged to Gerald and
me. We didn't keep him for his useful qualities, and we certainly
didn't keep him for his moral qualities; and I don't know what we did
keep him for, unless, for the best reason in the world, that we loved
him.
He was always getting us into scrapes, the most renowned of which was
one Rough's enemies were fond of alluding to.
We were bidden to a christening one fair spring morning; and we not
only accepted the invitation, but promised to bring apple-blossoms, to
fill the font and make the church look gay. We had an old apple
orchard, that bore beautiful blossoms, but worthless fruit; and of
these blossoms we had leave to pick as many as we chose.
So we filled the donkey-cart with them, and set forth for the
christening, which was to be at a little church about a mile or more
distant from our farm. Rough's enemies will tell how we arrived when
the christening was all over, and our apple blossoms faded.
We were never so happy as when we had a whole leisure afternoon to go
off with Rough in the donkey-cart, and our little sister Daisy by
Gerald's side, on the board that served as seat, and I lying on my
back on the bottom of the cart, with my heels dangling out of it. So I
would lie for hours, whistling and looking up at the drifting clouds,
or with my hat over my eyes to keep out the sun.
One afternoon, early in March, when the roads were almost knee deep in
mud, and the last of the melting snow made a running stream on either
side of the road, we were slowly travelling along after the manner I
have described. We were going to take a longing look at the skating
pond, two miles from our farm. We were forbidden to try the dangerous
ice, but meant only to look upon the scene of our winter's delight.
"Some one's in the pond!" cried Daisy.
"How do ye know?" said I, not removing my hat from my face.
You see Daisy was only six years old, and I hadn't much faith in her
observation.
"Cos I sees 'em with my own eyes."
I jumped up and looked. It was only a hat I saw. Gerald meanwhile
said nothing, but had pulled up Rough (who not only stopped, but lay
down in the mud), and looked. I watched him, to see what he thought,
or proposed to do.
[Illustration: {A child collecting flowers together}]
People had a way of trusting to Gerald's judgment rather than their
own, and were generally better off for it.
"It _is_ some one in the pond," said Gerald; and then followed a short
discussion as to whether we should leave Daisy alone to the mercies of
Rough, which resulted in our leaving Rough, and taking Daisy along
with us down to the pond.
We could see a boy, apparently about Gerald's age, swimming and
striving to keep up, and catching at the ice, which broke as he clung
to it. He swam feebly, as if benumbed and wearied.
"Keep a brave heart!" roared Gerald; "we'll save you!" and then began
to take off his boots and coat. The boy sank--under the ice, this
time. We could see it bobbing up and down as he swam beneath it.
"Stay here till I call you," said Gerald to me, as he stepped from the
shore on to the ice, and walked out towards where the swimmer was
hidden by the ice. I stood breathless, with my eye on Gerald.
The ice began to crack under him. He lay down on his stomach, and
pulled himself forward with his hands. Up came the swimmer not far
from him.
"Keep up! Gerald will save you!" cried Daisy.
The poor fellow cast one despairing look at Gerald, and sank again.
Gerald had gone as far as was practicable on the ice. I could hear it
cracking all over, and see the white cracks darting suddenly over ice
that had looked safe.
Up came the boy again.
"Keep up! keep up!" cried Daisy, in an excited treble. "Gerald will
save you!"
But the boy could hear nothing. He had his eyes closed, and seemed to
have fainted. Gerald reached out, and clutched him by the arm. How the
ice cracked all about him! My heart was in my mouth; I thought he was
in. I began to take my coat off.
"A scarf!" said Gerald, speaking for the first time.
I took off my own, and picked up Gerald's from the ground, and tied
them firmly together. I saw that they were too short. Daisy offered
hers. I took it, with an inward fear, if the child should catch cold;
it seemed paltry to think of it at such a moment. I stepped out on the
ice, and went a few steps, when Gerald cried,--
"Stop!"
I obeyed like a soldier.
"Throw it now!"
I threw the long string of scarfs. Gerald dexterously caught it, and
upholding the poor boy with one hand, with the other passed the string
under his arms, and tied the ends of it to his own arm. Then he paused
a moment before attempting the hazardous work of coming ashore, and
looked at me speculatively. I knew what he meant. There was a shadow
of trouble in his face that had nothing to do with his own danger. He
was weighing the possibility of his falling in, and my doing the same
in trying to save him, and Daisy alone on the shore. I gave a cheering
"Go ahead, old fellow!" and he began to push himself back again,
dragging his senseless burden after him by the scarf tied to his arm.
Crack! crack! crack! went the ice all about him, and little tides of
water flooded it. At last it seemed a little firmer. Gerald rose to
his feet, and dragging the boy still in the water after him, began to
walk slowly towards the shore, not seeming to notice how the sharp
edges of the ice cut the face and forehead of the poor half-drowned
boy.
Again the ice began to crack and undulate. Gerald stood still for a
moment, and the piece on which he stood broke away from the rest, and
began to float out. He jumped to the next, which broke, and so to the
next, and the next, till he neared the shore. Then he paused a moment,
and looked at me.
"Go ashore!" he roared like a sea captain.
Then I noticed that I stood on a detached piece of ice, but nearer
land than Gerald. I found no difficulty in gaining the shore.
"Now stand firm and give a hand!" said Gerald.
I grasped his hand, and he jumped ashore, and together we lifted the
boy out of the water. Daisy burst into tears, crying,--
"O, Gerald, Gerald, I thought you'd be drowned!"
Gerald very gently put her clinging arms away from him, saying,
firmly,--
"Don't cry, Daisy. We have our hands full with this poor fellow."
I got the skates off the "poor fellow," and gave them to Daisy to
hold. She, brave little woman, gulped down her tears, and only gave
vent to her emotion, now and then, by a little suppressed sob. Gerald
began beating the hands and breathing into the mouth and nostrils of
the seeming lifeless form before us.
"Is he dead, Gery?" said I.
"No!" said Gerald, fiercely. It was evident that he wouldn't believe
he had gone through so much trouble to bring a dead man ashore. "Look
for his handkerchief, and see if there's a mark on it."
I fished a wet rag out of the wet trousers pocket, and found in one
corner of it the name "Stevens."
"There's a farmer of that name two miles farther on. I don't know any
one else of that name. Must be his son. We'll take him home;" and he
began wrapping his coat about the poor boy; but I insisted on mine
being used for the purpose, as Gerald was half wet, and his teeth were
already chattering. "We must get him off this wet ground as soon as
possible," said Gerald; and together we lifted him, and slowly and
laboriously bore him to the donkey-cart in the road.
By this time Gerald had only strength enough to hold the reins, and we
set out forthwith for the Stevens farm, I, with what help Daisy could
give, trying to bring some show of life back to the stranger. Perhaps
the jolting of the cart helped,--I don't know,--but by and by he began
to revive, and at last we propped him up in one corner of the cart,
with his head supported by Daisy's knee.
I shall not soon forget how long the road seemed, and how I got out
and walked in deep mud, and how, when poor Rough seemed straining
every muscle to make the little cart move at all, Gerald insisted on
getting out, too, and leading Rough; how the sun set as we were wading
through a long road, where willow trees grew thick on either side, and
Daisy said, "See; all the little pussies are out!" how, at last, we
reached the Stevens farm, and restored the half-drowned boy to his
parents. I remember, too, how they were so utterly absorbed, very
naturally, in the welfare of their boy, as to forget all about us, and
offer us no quicker means of return home than our donkey-cart.
They came to call on us the next day, and to thank us, and specially
Gerald, with tears of gratitude. And Gerald was a hero in the village
from that day forth.
I remember well how dark it grew as we waded slowly and silently
home, and how poor little Rough did his very best, and never stopped
once.
I think he understood the importance of the occasion; but those who
were not Rough's friends, believe it was a recollection, and
expectation of supper, that made him acquit himself so honorably.
As we neared our home, we saw a tall figure looming up in the dark,
and soon, by the voice, we knew it was Michael, one of the farm hands,
sent to seek us.
"Bluder an nouns," he exclaimed, "it is you, Mister Gery! An' yer
muther, poor leddy, destroyed wid the fright. An' kapin' the chilt out
to this hair. Hadn't ye moor sense?"
We explained briefly; and Daisy begged to be carried, as the cart was
all wet.
With many Irish expressions of sympathy, Michael took the child in his
arms; and so we arrived at home, and found father and mother half
distracted with anxiety, and the farm hands sent in all directions to
look for us. We were at once, all three of us, put to bed, and made to
drink hot lemonade, and have hot stones at our feet, and not till then
tell all our experiences, which were listened to eagerly.
Daisy escaped unhurt, I with a slight cold, but Gerald and poor little
Rough were the ones who suffered. Gerald had a severe attack of
pneumonia, from which we had much ado to bring him back to health, and
Rough was ill. They brought us the news from the stable on the next
morning. We couldn't tell what was the matter; perhaps he had strained
himself, perhaps had caught cold. We could not tell, nor could the
veterinary surgeon we brought to see him. Poor Rough lay ill for
weeks, and one bright spring morning he died.
They told us early in the morning, before we were out of bed, how, an
hour ago, Rough had died.
[Illustration: THE MUSIC LESSON.]
THE MUSIC LESSON.
Touch the keys _lightly_,
Nellie, my dear:
The noise makes Johnnie
Impatient, I fear.
He looks very cross,
I am sorry to see--
Not looking at all
As a brother should be.
Whatever you're doing,
Bear this always in mind:
In all _little things_
Be both _thoughtful_ and _kind_.
THE FROST.
The frost looked forth one still clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I'll take my way:
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In diamond beads; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept:
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,
By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things: there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples and towers, and these
All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair:
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare--
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."
[Illustration: {A woman and two children with a calf}]
MY PICTURE.
I have a little picture;
Perchance you have one too.
Mine is not set in frame of gold;
'Tis first a bit of blue,
And then a background of dark hills--
A river just below,
Along whose broad, green meadow banks
The wreathing elm trees grow.
Upon an overhanging ridge
A little farm-house stands,
Whose owner, like the man of old,
Has builded "on the sands;"
And yet, defying storms and wind,
It stands there all alone,
And brightens up the landscape
With a beauty of its own.
Fairy-like my picture changes
As the seasons come and go.
Now it glows 'neath summer's kisses;
Now it sleeps 'mid winter's snow.
I can see the breath of spring-time
In the river's deeper blue,
And autumn seems to crown it
With her very brightest hue.
Ah. I'd not exchange my picture
For the choicest gem of art;
Yet I must not claim it wholly;
It is only mine in part;
For 'tis one of nature's sketches--
A waif from that Great Hand
Which hath filled our earth with models
Of the beautiful and grand.
WHY?
Why are the blossoms
Such different hues?
And the waves of the sea
Such a number of blues?
So many soft greens
Flit over the trees?
And little gray shadows
Fly out on the breeze?
Why are the insects
So wondrously fair;
Illumining grasses
And painting the air?
You dear little shells,
O, why do you shine?
And feathery sea-weed
Grow fragile and fine?
Why are the meadows
Such gardens of grace,
With infinite beauty
In definite space?
Each separate grass
A world of delight?
O, food for the cattle,
Why are you so bright?
Why are our faces
Such lovable things,
With lips made for kisses,
And laughter that sings?
With eyes full of love,
That sparkle and gleam,
Through beautiful colors,
That change like a dream?
Think for a moment--
Look up to the sky;
Question your heart; it
Will answer the Why!
Bright is the glitter
Of beauty unfurled--
Boundless the love that
Has fashioned the world!
BIRDS.
The wisdom of God is seen in every part of creation, and especially
in the different kinds of birds. The beauty displayed in their
graceful forms and varied colors strikes every beholder, while the
adaptation of their organs for the purposes of flight, their peculiar
habits and modes of living, are a constant source of admiration to the
student of nature.
Almost everything about the shape of a bird fits it for moving rapidly
in the air, and all parts of its body are arranged so as to give it
lightness along with strength. The soft and delicate plumage of birds
protects them from cold or moisture; their wings, though so delicate,
are furnished with muscles of such power as to strike the air with
great force, whilst their tails act like the rudder of a ship, so that
they can direct their course at pleasure with the utmost ease.
The internal structure of a bird also is such as to help it to sustain
itself in, and to fly quickly through, the air. Its lungs are pierced
with large holes, which allow air to pass into cavities in the breast,
and even into the interior of the bones. It is thus not only rendered
buoyant, but is enabled to breathe even while in rapid motion. Two
sparrows, it is said, require as much air to maintain their breathing
properly as a guinea pig.
In many other ways the skill and goodness of God are seen in the "fowl
of the air." Their necks and beaks are long, and very movable, so that
they may readily pick up food and other objects from the ground. The
muscles of their toes are so arranged that the simple weight of the
body closes them, and they are able, in consequence, to sit on a perch
a long time without fatigue. Even in a violent wind a bird easily
retains its hold of the branch or twig on which it is sitting. Their
bills are of almost all forms: in some kinds they are straight; in
others curved, sometimes upwards and sometimes downwards; in others
they are flat; in some they are in the form of a cone, wedge-shaped,
or hooked. The bill enables a bird to take hold of its food, to strip
or divide it. It is useful also in carrying materials for its nest, or
food to its young; and in the birds of prey, such as the owl, the
hawk, the falcon, eagle, etc., the beak is a formidable weapon of
attack.
The nostrils of birds are usually of an oval form, and are placed near
the base of the beak. Their eyes are so constructed that they can see
near and distant objects equally well, and their sight is very acute.
The sparrow-hawk discerns the small birds which are its prey at an
incredible distance. No tribe of birds possesses an outward ear,
except those which seek their food by night; these have one in the
form of a thin, leathery piece of flesh. The inside ear, however, is
very large, and their hearing is very quick.
[Illustration: BIRD'S NEST.]
Another admirable feature in the structure of birds consists in their
feathers. These are well adapted for security, warmth, and freedom of
motion. The larger feathers of the body are placed over each other
like the slates on the roof of a house, so that water is permitted to
run off, and cold is kept out. The down, which is placed under the
feathers, is a further protection against the cold; and hence it is
most abundant in those species that are found in northern climates.
The feathery covering of birds forms their peculiar beauty: on this,
in the warm climates, Nature bestows her most delicate and brightest
colors.
[Illustration: {An apteryx, or kiwi}]
Another point which sets forth the resources of Infinite Wisdom is the
structure and uses of the wings of birds. The size of the wings is not
always in proportion to the bulk of their bodies, but is accommodated
to their habits of living. Accordingly, birds of prey, swallows, and
such birds as are intended to hover long in the air, have much longer
wings, in proportion to their size, than hens, ducks, quails, etc. In
some, such as the ostrich, the cassiowary, and the penguin, the
largest quill-feathers of the wing are entirely wanting.
Then, again, how varied is the flight of birds! The falcon soars above
the clouds, and remains in the air for many hours without any sign of
exertion. The swallow, the lark, and other species, sail long
distances with little effort. Others, like the sparrow and the
humming-bird, have a fluttering flight. Some, as the owl, fly without
any noise; and some, like the partridge, with a loud whir.
"Around the head
Of wandering swain the white-winged plover wheels
Her sounding flight, and then directly on
In long excursion skims the level lawn,
To tempt him from her nest."
How graceful are the motions of the hawk, sweeping higher and higher
in circles, as he surveys far and wide the expanse of fields and
meadows below, in which he hopes to espy his prey. Our paper would be
too long were we to say even a little about the roosting, the
swimming, or running, the migration, the habits and instincts, the
varied notes and pleasant songs, of the endless species of birds.
All these subjects are well worthy of being carefully studied; for
they all show the design of their Creator. The extraordinary creature
represented in the engraving is the "Apteryx," or "wingless bird" of
New Zealand. It was not known to European naturalists till of late
years, and for a long time the accounts which the natives of New
Zealand gave of it were discredited. A specimen of it, preserved in
brine, was, however, brought to this country, and a full description
of the bird given.
The kirvi-kirvi, as the New Zealanders call it, stands about two feet
high. Its wings are so small that they can scarcely be called wings,
and are not easy to find under the general plumage of the body. Its
nostrils, strange to say, are at the tip of the beak. The toes are
strong, and well adapted for digging, the hind one being a thick,
horny spur. To add to the singularity of this creature, it has no tail
whatever. The kirvi-kirvi conceals itself among the extensive beds of
fern which abound in the middle island of New Zealand, and it makes a
nest of fern for its eggs in deep holes, which it hollows out of the
ground. It feeds on insects, and particularly worms, which it disturbs
by stamping on the ground, and seizes the instant they make their
appearance. Night is the season when it is most active; and the
natives hunt it by torchlight. When pursued, it elevates its head,
like an ostrich, and runs with great swiftness. It defends itself,
when overtaken, with much spirit, inflicting dangerous blows with its
strong spur-armed feet.
In this instance, as in all others, God has wisely adapted the very
shape and limbs of the creature to the habits by which it was intended
to be distinguished.
F. F. E.
KINDNESS REWARDED.