and men, and goats. Did you make them all?"
Attracted by the call of the child, a lady came out of the principal
tent. She was yet young, tall, and covered with a medley of garments
from various costumes. Her face sparkled with energy, and might have
been called beautiful. She threw a sad glance at Salvator, and
approached him haughtily, as if to give an order. But seeing the two
children busily looking over the sketch-book, and observing the
familiar way with which both treated their new acquaintance, she
appeared to change her manner somewhat, and began to look at the
pictures herself, and to admire them. At the end of half an hour the
mother and the children seemed like old friends of Salvator Rosa.
The woman was the wife of the chief. A daughter of an honorable
family, she married a young man at Pisa, her native city, who proved
to be captain of this band of robbers. She could not well leave the
company into which she had been betrayed; and so, with a noble
self-denial, she became resigned to her hard lot. An unwilling witness
of the many crimes of her husband and his companions, she suffered
cruelly in her resignation. Yet her fidelity, her virtue,--things
rarely known, but sometimes respected among these mountain
brigands,--had given her a moral power over the men as well as over
her husband. More than once she had used this means to temper their
ferocity, and obtain pardon for their unfortunate prisoners.
Just then one of the brigands came and brought to the prisoner the
order from the chief that he should write to his friends to obtain
money for his ransom. The man was going, under a disguise, to the city
of Florence; and he offered to deliver any letters intrusted to his
care. He indicated the place where the ten thousand ducats must be
left, so that Salvator might inform his correspondent.
Our hero had many devoted friends; but nearly all were artists like
himself, and without fortune. Nevertheless, he decided to write to one
of them. He gave orders that all the pictures in his studio should be
sold. He hoped that the money which they would bring, together with
what his friends could advance to him, would amount to the sum
demanded by the chief.
This done, Salvator easily persuaded himself that he should soon be
set at liberty, and the artist recovered his unconcern, and almost his
usual good spirits. The country around him was full of romantic
studies for his pencil. He had, besides, found in the society of the
children of Pietratesta two charming companions. He instructed them in
the elements of his art; and his pupils, to both of whom the study was
quite new, seemed never to grow tired of their task.
In a moment of good humor, he drew caricatures of each member of the
band, which created a great deal of amusement. Then he drew, with
great care, the portraits of the two children. This attention
profoundly touched the heart of the mother, and her tender sympathy,
almost wasting among these unfeeling men, found a secret pleasure in
rendering the captivity of the young painter less unhappy and less
hard. She conversed with him familiarly, and it gave her great
pleasure to see the care which he took to instruct her children.
So Salvator Rosa, to whom the band gave quite a considerable degree of
liberty, never dreamed of taking improper advantage of it. Thanks to
his fancy and his recklessness as an artist, he almost forgot that he
was the prisoner of a cruel master, and that his life was in peril.
But the ransom, which he had sent for, came not. Whether the letters
he had written failed to reach their destination, or whether his
friends were deaf to his request for assistance, he received no
answer. He wrote repeatedly, but always with the same result.
And so the months slipped by, and the chief began to grow impatient at
the long delay. His wife had more than once calmed his anger, and
prevented any catastrophe. At length several weeks went by, in which
the expeditions of the band were unfruitful. The provisions were
running low, and Pietratesta saw in his captive one unprofitable
mouth. Sivora, his wife, felt her influence to be growing weaker and
weaker under the increasing destitution and continued delay.
One day Pietratesta encountered his prisoner, and, addressing him in
an irritated voice,--
"Well?" he said, as if his question needed no other explanation.
"Nothing yet," responded Salvator Rosa, sadly.
"Ah, this is too much!" cried the brigand. "I begin to think you are
playing with me. But do you know the price Pietratesta makes those pay
who cross him?"
"Alas! I am far from trying to deceive you. You know that I have done
all in my power to obtain my ransom. I have written to various
persons; your own men have taken my letters. You see that it is not
my fault."
"It is always the fault of prisoners when their ransom is not paid."
"Wait a little longer. I will write again to-day."
"Wait! wait! A whole year, month after month, has gone by, and you
repeat the same old story. A year--an age for me--I have waited. Do
you think I have been making unmeaning threats? Do you expect to abuse
my patience with impunity? It has given out at last--the more so as,"
added he, now that he felt his anger increasing, "I ought to have
settled this affair a long while ago. This is your last day, observe
me."
At a sign from their chief, four bandits seized the young man, and
bound him. As Salvator was led away, he cast one sad look at the
dwelling where he had passed many happy hours, and from which he was
going to his death. For a moment he stopped to say farewell to the
children, who were standing at the door crying and stretching out
their little naked brown arms towards him.
A few moments later, Sivora, who had been gathering flowers in the
mountains, returned home. Observing that her husband, as well as
Salvator, was absent, and her children in tears, she guessed the
painful truth.
"Where is Salvator?" she asked of the eldest.
"They have bound him, and carried him away," responded the child,
still crying.
"Which way?"
"Down yonder," was the reply of the child, pointing with its finger in
the direction of a rocky cliff already too well known for its horrible
scenes.
"Alas, wretched man!" exclaimed Sivora, almost frantically, as she
comprehended the new crime her husband was about to commit. She sat
down for a moment, covered her face with her hands--a prey to the
most unspeakable anxiety. Then, rising suddenly, her eyes flashing
with determination,--
"Come!" she said, resolutely; "come, my children. Perhaps we may yet
be in time."
And, taking the hands of her little ones, who followed her with
difficulty, but yet eagerly, she darted away at a rapid pace in the
direction taken by the brigands.
While the men were hurrying Salvator along, the chief maintained a
profound silence. His band followed him as dumb as slaves who go to
execute the will of their master, which they know is law. They soon
arrived at the summit of a cliff, which overhung a yawning abyss
beneath. After having taken one look over the precipice, and examined
the neighborhood rapidly, Pietratesta cried, "Halt!" and the whole
body came to a rest.
"There is just a quarter of an hour for you to live," he said, turning
to his prisoner. "You have time to die like a Christian. Make your
prayer."
The young man hesitated for a moment, threw his agitated eyes around,
then, kneeling on the rock, he prayed earnestly. The men stood
unmoved, as if they had been statues cut from stone.
Salvator rose, with a calm demeanor, and said, addressing the chief in
a firm tone,--
"My life is in your hands, I know. You are going to kill me without
any cause. I have prayed," he added, with a voice full of authority,
"for the salvation of my soul, and repentance for thine. God will
judge us both. I am ready."
Immediately the brigands seized the young man, and hurried him towards
the precipice. Already they waited but the signal of their chief,
already Pietratesta had given the fatal command, when a cry was heard
not many paces distant, which suspended the preparations.
"Stop!" exclaimed a harsh voice.
The bandits, astonished at the interruption, turned to see whence it
came. A woman ran towards them, her hair in disorder, her countenance
pale and agitated, her dark eyes flashing with determination. She held
by their hands two children, who, with weeping eyes, were hastening,
with all the speed their young limbs could carry them, towards the
precipice.
It was Sivora.
As she came forward the chief uttered an exclamation of disappointment
and anger.
"Why do you come here?" he asked, in an irritated voice.
"You know well enough," responded Sivora, without any sign of
intimidation. "What are you about to do? What is the crime of this
young man? What is the wrong he has committed? You know he is
innocent, and that it is not his fault that the price of his ransom
has not been paid. Why commit a useless crime? You have too many on
your soul already," she added, in a low, sad voice. "Since it is not
too late, let the young man go. His ransom is not absolutely
necessary. If it was, would his death bring it to you? Remember with
what care and solicitude he has treated your children! with what
patience he has instructed them in his art! See, they weep, as if
their hearts would break, at the wrong you would do their friend! It
is they--it is I--who ask clemency. You will not kill Salvator; you
will pardon him for the love you bear your children."
As she said these words she pushed the two little blond heads into the
arms of their father.
The brigands, hesitating, touched, without knowing why, struck with an
involuntary respect for the woman, remained immovable, with their eyes
fixed upon their chief, as if waiting to ascertain his wishes. He
stood, brooding, nervous, his eyes bent upon the ground, hardly daring
to look upon Sivora, at once his suppliant and accuser, a prey to
violent emotions. The authority of that respected voice, and the
irritation at being deprived of his revenge,--the invincible love he
had for the woman, and the shame of giving way before his men,--all
these warring considerations, the effects of which were plainly to be
seen on his swarthy face, spoke of the severe contest going on within.
At length his evil genius got the control.
"What do I care for his solicitude and his tenderness?" he said, in a
coarse voice. "He would forget all as soon as he should get out of our
hands; and he would, no doubt, send the police after us if we should
let him go. I know what the promises of captives are worth. Besides,
_I_ command here, I alone, and I will be obeyed. Take away these
children; and you, comrades, despatch your your prisoner."
"Ah! is it so?" exclaimed Sivora, in a piercing voice, throwing
herself before the bandits, who were pushing their victim towards the
chasm. "Then I will beg no more; I _command_ now. Listen to me well,
for these are my last words. You know with what devotion, with what
resignation, I have supported this bitter life which you brought me to
among these mountains. The isolation, the sorrow, the shame, I have
endured for thee. I have never complained. I hoped, after such
sacrifices, you would at length listen to my words, and renounce your
bad life. But since you do not care for my devotion, since I am
nothing to you, listen well to my words, Pietratesta. If you dare to
commit this odious crime, look for a mother for your children, for,
with your victim, you will slay your wife!"
So saying, she advanced close to the brink of the cliff, over which
she could spring at the signal from her husband.
Salvator, motionless and rooted to the spot, in silence, full of
anxiety, observed this strange scene. The robbers, hardened by crime,
for the first time hesitated at the command of their chief, and fixed
their eyes upon the beautiful woman to whom despair added a new charm.
They quailed before her authority, and stood as motionless as statues.
Pietratesta, overwhelmed by the recollections which the woman's words
awakened, alarmed at her threats and her resolution, hung his head,
like a guilty wretch before a just judge, while Sivora, with wild
countenance, piercing voice, and imperial manner, her long black hair
loosely falling upon her shoulders, with her arms extended towards the
abyss, almost resembled an ancient goddess, who suddenly appears at
the moment of crime, arrests the homicidal arm, and subjects the
criminal to punishment. There was in her figure an imposing grandeur,
before which the rude men, for an instant recalled to themselves, felt
humiliated and condemned.
Astounded by that firmness and devotion, ashamed of his violence
towards the woman who was living a life of outrage, the chief, after
some moments of moody silence, said, in an altered voice,--
"You wish it! He is free!"
Salvator threw himself upon his knees before his preserver, covered
her hand with kisses and tears, and pressed, with transport, the two
children in his arms. Completely wild with happiness and gratitude, he
abandoned himself to the buoyancy of his generous nature, when Sivora
said to him, in a whisper,--
"Go! go quickly! The tiger is only sleeping!"
They put a bandage over the eyes of the young man, so that he might
not see the path by which he descended from the mountains, and two of
the brigands then conducted him to the highway which led to the city.
Hardly had he entered Florence, yet sad from the recollection of the
scene in which he came near being a victim, when the young painter
hastily sketched the principal details; and, some time after, the
picture of which we have spoken was composed, and hangs this day in
the museum at Naples, admired and pointed out to all visitors.
L. D. L.
WE SHOULD HEAR THE ANGELS SINGING.
If we only sought to brighten
Every pathway dark with care,
If we only tried to lighten
All the burdens others bear,
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
If we only strove to cherish
Every pure and holy thought,
Till within our hearts should perish
All that is with evil fraught,
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
If it were our aim to ponder
On the good that we might win,
Soon our feet would cease to wander
In forbidden paths of sin;
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
If we only did our duty,
Thinking not what it might cost,
Then the earth would wear new beauty
Fair as that in Eden lost;
We should hear the angels singing
All around us, night and day;
We should feel that they were winging
At our side their upward way!
KATE CAMERON.
MY LITTLE HERO.
"How we wish that we knew a hero!"
Say the children, pressing round;
"Will you tell us if such a wonder
In London streets can be found?"
I point from my study-window
At a lad who is passing by:
"My darlings, there goes a hero;
You will know his oft-heard cry."
"'Tis the chimney-sweep, dear father,
In his jacket so worn and old;
What can _he_ do that is brave and true,
Wandering out in the cold?"
Says Maudie, "I thought that a hero
Was a man with a handsome face."
"And I pictured him all in velvet dressed,
With a sword," whispered little Grace.
"Mine is only a 'sweeper,' children,
His deeds all unnoticed, unknown;
Yet I think he is one of the heroes
God sees and will mark for his own.
"Out there he looks eager and cheerful,
No matter how poorly he fares;
No sign that his young heart is heavy
With the weight of unchildish cares.
[Illustration: MY LITTLE HERO.]
"Home means to him but a dingy room,
A father he shudders to see;
Alas for the worse than neglected sons
Who have such a father as he!
"And a mother who lies on a ragged bed,
So sick and worn and sad;
No friend has she but this one pale boy--
This poor little sweeper-lad,
"So rough to others, and all unskilled,
Yet to her most tender and true,
Oft waking with patient cheerfulness
To soothe her the whole night through.
"He wastes no time on his own scant meals,
But goes forth with the morning sun;
Never a moment is wasted
Till his long day's work is done.
"Then home to the dreary attic
Where his mother lies lonely all day,
Unheeding the boys who would tempt him
To linger with them and play.
"Because she is helpless and lonely,
He is doing a hero's part;
For loving and self-denying
Are the tests of a noble heart."
[Illustration: {A robin sits on a snowy branch}]
ROBIN REDBREAST.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O, Robin, dear!
And what will this poor Robin do?
For pinching days are near.
The fireside for the cricket,
The wheat-stack for the mouse,
When trembling night winds whistle,
And moan all round the house.
The frosty way like iron,
The branches plumed with snow--
Alas! in winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O, Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
HOW SWEETIE'S "SHIP CAME IN."
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
It will be a real honest story--of how Christmas came to a poor cold
home, and made it bright, and warm, and glad. A _very_ poor home it
was, up three flights of worm-eaten, dirt-stained stairs, in the old
gray house that stood far up a narrow, crooked alley, where the sun
never shone except just a while in the middle of the day. He tried
hard to brighten up the place a little, but the tall houses all about
prevented him. Still he slanted a few golden beams even into that
wretched home away up under the eaves; for though the few small panes
of glass in the narrow windows had been mostly broken out, and their
places filled with boards nailed tight to keep out the wintry winds,
and rain, and snow, still there were some left through which a feeble
ray did sometimes creep and make glad the hearts of the children. Five
fatherless children lived with their mother in that old garret. Night
and day the mother sewed, taking scarcely any rest, and yet found it
hard to keep all the little toes and knees covered, and could get only
the poorest food for the five hungry mouths. The thought that, work
never so hard, she could not earn enough to give them one hearty,
satisfying meal, made her heart ache.
Three boys and two girls, in one old naked room, with only their
mother to care for them, and she so poor, that for years she had not
had a new gown, or a new bonnet! Yet she liked pretty new clothes, as
well as any one ever did, I know.
Of these five little folks, the oldest was Harry, the newsboy; then
came Katie, and Willie, and Fred, and, last of all, wee Jennie.
Though Harry was the oldest, yet _he_ was not very old. Just
twelve--a thin, white little fellow, with eyes that always looked as
if they wanted more. More what? Well, more sunshine; more warm
clothes, and bright, hot fires, and, O, very much more to eat!
Sometimes he would make fifty cents in a day, selling newspapers, and
then he would hurry joyfully home, thinking of the hungry little
mouths it would help to fill. But some days he would hardly earn ten
cents the whole long day. Then he would go slowly and sadly along,
wishing all sorts of things--that he could take home as much meat as
he could carry to the little ones who had not eaten meat for so long
they had almost forgotten how it tasted; or that the gentlemen, who
owned the clothing stores which he was passing, would say to him,
"Come in, my little fellow, and help yourself to as many warm clothes
as you want for yourself and your little brothers at home;" or that he
could find a heap of money--and his mouth would water, thinking of the
good things which he could buy and take home with some of it.
The other children always knew whether it had been a good or bad day
with Harry, by the way he came up the stairs. If he came with a hop,
skip, and a jump, they knew it meant a good day; and a good day for
Harry was a good evening for them all.
Though Katie was really the name of the second child, she hardly ever
was called so; for her mother, and the children, and all the
neighbors, called her Sweetie, she was so good and so thoughtful for
others, so sweet-tempered and kind. She did everything so gently that
none of them could ever love her half as much as she deserved. Though
only ten years old, and very small and pale, she did every bit of the
housework, and kept the ugly old room and its faded furniture so neat,
that it seemed almost home-like and pretty to them all. It was
happiness enough for the little ones to get her first kiss when she
came back from an errand, to sit by her at table, and, above all, to
lie closest to her at night. Willie, and Fred, and Jennie, all slept
with her on a straw bed in the corner; and they used to try to stretch
her little arms over them all, so that even the one farthest off might
feel the tips of her fingers, so dearly did they love her.
They had once owned more than one bedstead, and many other comfortable
things besides; but when their father was killed at the great factory
where he worked, their mother was obliged to sell almost everything to
get enough money to pay for his funeral, and to help support her
little family; so that now she had only a narrow wooden settee for her
bed, while Harry stretched himself on a couple of chairs, and the rest
slept all together in the bed on the floor. Poor as they were, they
were not very unhappy. Almost every night, when their mother took the
one dim candle all to herself, so that she could see to sew neatly,
Sweetie would amuse the other children by telling them beautiful
stories about the little flower people, and the good fairies, and
about Kriss Kringle--though how she knew about him I can't tell, for
he never came down their chimney at Christmas.
"And, when my ship comes in," Sweetie used to say, "I'll have the
tallest and handsomest Christmas tree, filled to the top with candies
and toys, and lighted all over with different-colored candles, and
we'll sing and dance round it. Let's begin now, and get our voices in
tune." Then they would all pipe up as loud as they could, and were as
happy as if they half believed Sweetie's ship was ready to land.
But there came a hard year for poor needle-women: it was the year I am
writing about, and Sweetie's mother found it almost impossible to get
even the necessaries of life. Her children's lips were bluer, their
faces more pinched, and thin, threadbare clothes more patched than
ever. Sweetie used to take the two boys, and hunt in the streets for
bits of coal and wood; but often, the very coldest days, they would
have no fire. It was very hard to bear, and especially for the poor
mother, who still had to toil on, though she was so chilled, and her
hands so numbed, she could hardly draw her needle through her work;
and for Harry, who trudged through the streets from daylight until the
street lamps were lighted.
The day before Christmas came. People were so busy cooking Christmas
dainties that they did not stop to sift their cinders very carefully,
and Sweetie and the boys had picked up quite a large bag full of
half-burnt coal in the alleys, and were carrying it home as carefully
as if it were a great treasure--as, indeed, it was to them. Being very
tired, they sat down to rest on the curbstone in front of an elegant
mansion. One of the long windows was open.
"Let's get close up under the window," said Sweetie. "I guess it's too
warm inside, and may be we shall get some of the heat. O! O! don't it
smell good?" she cried, as the savory odors of the Christmas cooking
stole out upon the air.
"What is it, Sweetie?" whispered Willie.
"Coffee," said Sweetie, "and turkeys, and jelly, perhaps."
"I wish I had some," sighed Freddy, "I'm so cold and hungry!"
"Poor little man! he must come and sit in Sweetie's lap; that will
make him warmer," said his sister, wrapping her shawl around him.
"Yes; that's nice," said the little fellow, hugging her tight.
Mr. Rogers, the owner of this fine house, had lost his wife and two
dear children within the year. He lived here alone, with his servants,
and was very desolate. When the children stopped under his window, he
was lying on a velvet sofa near it, and, lifting himself up, he peeped
out from behind the curtains just as Fred crept into his sister's
arms; and he heard all they said.
"When your ship comes in, Sweetie, will it have turkeys and jellies in
it?" said Willie, leaning against her.