Jennie, and a great deal fatter."
"But it's so long coming, Sweetie; you tell us every time it _will_
come, and it never _comes_ at all."
"O, no, Freddy. I don't ever say it _will_ come, but it's nice to
think what we would do if it should come--isn't it?"
"We'd buy a great white house, like this--wouldn't we, Sweetie?"
"No, Willie. I'd rather buy that nice little store over by the church,
that's been shut up so long, and has FOR SALE on the door. I'd furnish
it all nice, and fill the shelves with beautiful goods, and trimmings
for ladies' dresses, and lovely toys. It shows so far that everybody
would be sure to buy their Christmas things there. It's just the
dearest little place, with two cosy rooms back of the shop, and three
overhead; and I'd put flour and sugar, and tea and coffee, and all
sorts of goodies, in the kitchen cupboard, and new clothes for all of
us in the closets up stairs. Then I'd kindle a fire, and light the
lamps, and lock the door, and go back to the dreary old garret once
more--poor mother would be sitting there, sad and sober, as she
always is now, and I would say to her, 'Come, mother, before you light
the candle, Jennie and I want you to go with us, and look at the
lovely Christmas gifts in the shop windows.' Then she'd say,
sorrowfully, 'I don't want to see them, dear; I can't buy any of them
for you, and I don't want to look at them.' But I'd tease her till I
made her go; and I'd leave Harry, who would know all about it
beforehand, to lock up the dismal old room, and bring all the rest of
you over to the new house. You'd get there long before we did, and the
light would be streaming out from the little shop windows--O, so
bright! 'Mother,' I'd say, 'let's go in here, and buy the cotton you
wanted;' and when I got her in, I'd shut the door quick, and dance up
and down, and say, 'Dear mother. Sweetie's ship's come in, and brought
you this new home, and everything comfortable; and Sweetie will tend
the shop, and you needn't sew any more day and night, for it's going to
be--' 'A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year for us--every one!'
Harry and all of you would shout, and our dear mother would cry for
joy."
"Will it come to pass soon, Sweetie?" asked both the boys at once.
"Not very, I'm afraid," answered Sweetie, in a subdued tone; but, when
she saw their look of disappointment, she brightened up in a moment,
and added, "It'll be all the better, when it does come, for waiting so
long--but look here! To-night is Christmas Eve, and we've got coal
enough here to make a splendid fire. We won't light it till dark, and
then it will last us all the evening. And I've got a great secret to
tell you: Harry made a whole dollar yesterday, and mother is going to
give us each three big slices of fried mush, and bread besides, for
supper; and, after supper, I'll tell you the prettiest story you ever
heard, and we'll sing every song we know, and I guess we'll have a
merry Christmas if nobody else does."
[Illustration: HOW SWEETIE'S SHIP CAME IN.]
"I wish it was Christmas all the time," said Freddy, faintly.
"Christ was born that day," said Sweetie, softly, "and that makes it
best of all."
"Yes," said Willie; "the dear Lord who came from Heaven and, for our
sakes, became poor, and had not where to lay his head, not even a
garret as good as ours--"
"I know," said Freddy; "he was born in a manger, and a beautiful star
shined right over it. I can sing a hymn about it."
Then they picked up their bag, and started for home, gay as larks over
the prospect of the treat they were to have that night--fried mush and
a fire! that was all, you know.
Mr. Rogers, concealed by the heavy silk curtains, had heard every word
they said, and his eyes were full of tears. He rang for his servant.
"Harris," said he, when the man came in, "follow those children, find
out where they live, and what their neighbors say of the family."
When he was left alone again, he began to think,--
"Rich as I am, I have never yet done any great good to anybody. Who
knows but God may have sent those children under my window to teach me
that, instead of my own lost darlings, he means me to care for these
and other suffering little ones who live in the lanes and alleys of
this great city!"
Harris soon came back, and told his master what he had learned about
the circumstances of the family; and he added,--
"Everybody calls the oldest girl Sweetie, and they do say she's as
good as gold."
Mr. Rogers went out, and, before night, had bought the little corner
store, for which Sweetie had longed. Then, calling his servants
together, he related what he had overheard the children say, and told
them how anxious he was to grant Sweetie's wish, and let her take her
mother to her new home on Christmas Day.
"But I cannot do it," said Mr. Rogers, "unless you are willing to help
me work on Christmas Eve, for there is a great deal to be done."
No one could refuse to aid in so good a cause; and besides, Mr. Rogers
was always so considerate of his servants that they were glad to
oblige him. They all went to work with a will, and soon the little
house and store were put in perfect order.
There were ribbons, laces, buttons, needles, pins, tapes, and, indeed,
all sorts of useful things in the store. In the cellar were coal and
wood, two whole hams, a pair of chickens, and a turkey. The kitchen
pantry was stocked with sugar and flour. There was one barrel of
potatoes, and another of the reddest apples. Up stairs the closets and
bureaus were bursting with nice things to wear, not quite made into
garments, but ready to be made, as soon as Sweetie and her mother got
time.
So rapidly and so completely was everything arranged, that it seemed
as if one of those good fairies, of whom Sweetie had so often told the
children, had been at work.
"The money this has cost me," thought Mr. Rogers, "will make a family
of six happy, and do them good all the rest of their lives. I am glad
the thought has come to my heart to celebrate Christ's birthday in so
pleasant a way."
Late in the afternoon he picked his way through the dull, dirty alley
to the old gray house where Sweetie lived. As he went up the worn and
dusty stairway, he heard the children singing their Christmas songs.
"Poor little things!" said he; and the tears stood in his eyes.
"Happy even in this miserable place, while I know so many surfeited
with luxuries, and yet pining and discontented!"
Harry jumped to open the door as he knocked; and Mr. Rogers, entering,
apologized to the children's mother for his intrusion by saying he had
come to ask a favor.
"It is but little we can do for any one, sir," replied Mrs. Lawson;
"but anything in our power will be cheerfully done."
"Even if I propose to carry off this little girl of yours for a
while?" he asked; but, seeing the troubled look in the other
children's faces, he hastened to explain.
"The truth is," said he, "having no little folks of my own, I thought
I'd try and make other people's happy to-day; so I set out to get up a
Christmas tree; but I find I don't know how to go to work exactly, and
I want Sweetie to help me."
He spoke so sadly when he said he had no children of his own, that
Sweetie could not refuse to go.
"O, yes, sir," said she; "I'll go; that is, if I may come back this
evening--for I couldn't disappoint Freddy and all of them, you know!"
"They shan't be disappointed, I promise you," said Mr. Rogers, as he
took her down stairs.
"Why, I never was in a carriage in all my life," said Sweetie, as he
lifted her into his beautiful clarence, and sat down beside her.
"I shouldn't wonder if you should ride in a carriage pretty often
now," said Mr. Rogers, "for your ship's coming in."
Sweetie couldn't tell whether she was in a dream or not. Half crying,
half laughing, her face flushed with surprise, she asked,--
"How did you know?"
"Know what?" said her friend, enjoying her bewilderment.
"Why," she answered, "about the way I keep up the children's spirits,
and make them forget they are hungry and cold, while I tell them about
my ship coming in?"
"A little bird told me," said he, and then was quiet.
Sweetie did not like to ask any more; so she sat quite still, leaning
back in one corner of the carriage, among the soft, crimson cushions,
and watched the people in the street, thinking how happy she was, and
how strange it was that little Katie Lawson should be riding with a
grand gentleman in a splendid carriage!
Suddenly, with a whirl and a turn, they stopped before a house. Mr.
Rogers lifted her out, and led her up the broad steps; and she found
he was taking her into the beautiful white house, under the windows of
which she had sat with Willie and Fred the day before.
"Now," said Mr. Rogers, rolling a comfortable arm-chair for Sweetie in
front of a glowing fire, "while you are getting warm, and eating your
dinner, I am going to tell you about my Christmas tree, and how your
ship came in."
A little table was brought in, and set between them, filled with so
many delicacies, that Sweetie's head grew dizzy at the sight. She
thought of her little hungry brothers and sister, and would rather not
have eaten, but Mr. Rogers made her.
"My little girl," said he, finally, "never forget this: God always
rewards a faithful heart. If he seems to be a long time without caring
for his children, he never forgets or forsakes them."
Then he told her that he had overheard her conversation with her
brothers under his window, and that God had suddenly put it into his
heart to take care of some of the poor and fatherless in that great
city. "And I am going to begin with Sweetie," said he, very tenderly;
"and this is the way her ship shall come in. She shall have a new home
to give to her mother for a Christmas present, and the boys shall sing
their Christmas hymns to-night in the bright little parlor of the
corner store, instead of the dingy old garret; and here are the deeds
made out in Katie Lawson's own name, and nobody can take it away from
her. But come, little woman," he added,--for Sweetie was sobbing for
joy, and could not thank him,--"go and wash your face, for the horses
are tired of standing in the cold, and we must go and fetch the boys,
or I shall never get my Christmas tree set up."
An old lady, with a face beaming with kindness,--it was Mr. Rogers's
housekeeper,--then took Sweetie, and not only washed her tear-stained
cheeks, but curled her soft brown hair, and put on her the loveliest
blue dress, with boots to match. All the time she was dressing her,
Sweetie, who could not believe her senses, kept murmuring,--
"It's only a dream; it's too good to be true; the boys won't believe
it, I know; it's just like a fairy story, and, of course, it's only
pretending."
"No, indeed," said the old lady; "it's really true, my dear, and I
hope you'll be so grateful and kind to Mr. Rogers that he won't be so
lonely as he has been without his own dear little children."
Sweetie could hardly realize her own good fortune; and, when she went
down into the parlor, she burst into tears again, saying,--
"O, sir, I can't believe it. I am so happy!"
"So am I, Sweetie," said Mr. Rogers; and really it was hard to tell
which was the happier--it is always so much more blessed to give than
to receive. Together they rode to the new home, and laughed and cried
together as they went all over it. After they had been up stairs, and
down stairs, and in my lady's chamber, as Mr. Rogers said, he put her
into the carriage again.
"James," said he to the coachman, "you are under this young lady's
orders to-night, and must drive carefully."
Then, kissing Sweetie, he put the key of her new home into her hand,
and, telling her he should want her help to-morrow about his Christmas
tree, he bade her good night.
James drove Sweetie home, for the last time, to the dilapidated old
house. She ran up stairs, Freddy said afterwards, "just as Harry
always did when he'd had a good day." "Mother and children," said she,
"Mr. Rogers, the kind gentleman who was here, has sent me back in his
carriage to take you all to see something beautiful he has been
showing me. Harry, you be the gentleman of the house, and hand mother
and Jennie to the carriage, and I'll come right along." She stopped
long enough--this good child, who, even in her own good fortune, did
not forget the misfortunes of others--to run into the next room, where
an old woman lived, who was a cripple, and whose daughter supported
her by sewing.
"Mrs. Jones," said she, hurriedly, "a kind gentleman has given us a
new home, and we are going to it to-night, never to come back here to
live any more. Our old room, with the rent paid for a year, and all
there is in it, I want you to take as a Christmas present from
Sweetie; and I wish you a Happy, happy New Year, and please give this
to Milly;" and, slipping a five-dollar bill, which Mr. Rogers had
given her, into the old woman's hand, she ran out, and jumped into the
carriage. The street lamps blinked at them, like so many stars, as
they rolled along, and the boys and Jennie screamed with delight; but
Sweetie sat quite still.
James knew where to stop. Sweetie got out first, and ran and unlocked
the door of the little corner store. When they were all inside, and
before any one had time to ask a question, Sweetie threw her arms
about her mother's neck.
"Mother," she cried, "Sweetie's ship's come in; but it never would
have come if it had not been for Mr. Rogers; and it's brought you this
pretty house and shop for your own, and, please God, we'll all have--"
"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" shouted Willie, ending her
sentence just as she had ended the story the day before.
"And all the better," said Fred, who remembered too, "because Christ
was born that day."
Mrs. Lawson, overwhelmed with joy, fainted. She soon recovered,
however, though Sweetie insisted on her lying on the soft lounge
before the fire, while she set the table. How pretty it looked, with
its six purple and white plates, and cups and everything to match! How
they did eat! How happy they were!
"Now," said Mrs. Lawson, when the dishes were washed, and they all sat
round the fire, "my little Sweetie, whose patience, and courage, and
cheerfulness have kept up the hearts of the rest of us, and proved the
ship that has brought us this cargo of comforts, you must tell us your
Christmas story before we go to bed."
So Sweetie told them all Mr. Rogers had said and done for her. They
were so excited they sat up very late, and happiness made them sleep
so soundly, that they did not wake till the sun was shining brightly
into the little shop. People began to come in very early, to make
little purchases. One lady bought a whole dollar's worth of toys,
which made them feel as if they were full of business already.
Later in the forenoon, Mr. Rogers sent for Harry and Sweetie to come
and help dress his Christmas tree; and Christmas night his parlor was
filled with poor children, for each of whom some useful gift hung on
the tree. Milly was there by Sweetie's invitation, and Mr. Rogers sent
her home in his carriage, with the easiest chair that money could buy
for her old lame mother. The tears filled his eyes as Milly thanked
him again and again for all his kindness; and, as he shut the door
after the last one, he said,--
"Hereafter I will make it always a Merry Christmas for God's needy
ones."
I am sure he did, for he had Sweetie always near him. He used to call
her his "Christmas Sweeting;" and then she would laugh, and say he was
her "Golden Sweeting."
What is better than gold he gave the family: he found patrons for Mrs.
Lawson, and customers for the shop, and placed Harry in a mercantile
house, where he soon rose to be head clerk. The other children he put
at school. Sweetie he never would let go very far out of his sight. He
had her thoroughly and usefully educated, and no less than her mother,
and brothers, and sister, did he bless the day when "Sweetie's ship
came in"--
A ship which brought for every day
A welcome hope, an added joy,
A something sweet to do or say,
And hosts of pleasures unalloyed,
Its cargo, made of pleasant cares,
Of daily duties to be done,
Of smiles and laughter, songs and prayers,
The glad, bright life of Happy Ones.
MARGARET FIELD.
[Illustration: NOTHING TO DO.]
NOTHING TO DO.
I have sailed my boat and spun my top,
And handled my last new ball;
I trundled my hoop till I had to stop,
And I swung till got a fall;
I tumbled my books all out of the shelves,
And hunted the pictures through;
I've flung them where they may sort themselves,
And now--I have nothing to do.
The tower of Babel I built of blocks
Came down with a crash to the floor;
My train of cars ran over the rocks--
I'll warrant they'll run no more;
I have raced with Grip till I'm out of breath;
My slate is broken in two,
So I can't draw monkeys. I'm tired to death
Because I have nothing to do.
I can see where the boys have gone to fish;
They bothered me, too, to go,
But for fun like that I hadn't a wish,
For I think it's mighty "slow"
To sit all day at the end of a rod
For the sake of a minnow or two,
Or to land, at the farthest, an eel on the sod:
I'd rather have nothing to do.
Maria has gone to the woods for flowers,
And Lucy and Rose are away
After berries. I'm sure they've been out for hours;
I wonder what makes them stay?
Ned wanted to saddle Brunette for me,
But riding is nothing new;
"I was thinking you'd relish a canter," said he,
"Because you have nothing to do."
I wish I was poor Jim Foster's son,
For he seems so happy and gay,
When his wood is chopped and his work all done,
With his little half hour of play;
He neither has books nor top nor ball,
Yet he's singing the whole day through;
But then he is never tired at all
Because he has nothing to do.
[Illustration: TWO GENTLEMEN IN FURS.]
TWO "GENTLEMEN IN FUR CLOAKS."
This is the name given to the bears in Kamschatka by the Laplanders,
who think they will be offended if they are called by their real name;
and we may give the same name to the bears in the picture. They are
Polar bears, who live in the seas round the North Pole, and fine white
fur coats they have of their own. They are white on purpose, so that
they may not be seen easily among all the snow and ice in which they
live. The head of the Polar bear is very long and flat, the mouth and
ears are small in comparison with other bears, the neck is long and
thick, and the sole of the foot very large. Perhaps you will wonder
how the bear manages to walk on the ice, as nobody is very likely to
give him skates or snow-boots. To be sure, he has strong, thick claws,
but they would not be of much use--they would only make him slip on
the hard ice--but the sole of the foot is covered nearly all over with
thick, woolly hair, so the bear walks as safely as old ladies do when
they wrap list round their boots.
The Polar bear likes to eat fish, though he will eat roots and berries
when he can get no better, and he is a very good swimmer; he can dive,
too, and make long leaps in the water. If he wants a boat, he has only
to get on a loose piece of ice, and then he can float about at his
ease.
This is a full-grown bear, of course. Young bears cannot do all these
things; they have to stay with their mothers on shore, where they eat
seals and seaweed; the seaweed is their vegetable, I suppose. When the
young bears travel and get tired, they get on their mother's back, and
ride there quite safely, whether in the water or on land.
Bears are very fond of their young, and will do anything to defend
them. There is a story told of a poor mother-bear and her two cubs
which is almost too sad to tell, but it will make us think kindly of
the bear, so I will tell it to you.
Years ago a ship which had gone to the North Pole to make discoveries
got fixed tight in the ice; one morning, while the ship was still
unable to get loose, a man at the lookout gave warning that three
bears were coming across the ice toward the ship. The crew had killed
a walrus a few days before, and no doubt the bears had smelled it. The
flesh of the walrus was roasting in a fire on the ice, and two of the
bears ran eagerly to it, dragged out the bits that were not burnt, and
began to eat them; they were the cubs, but were almost as large as
their mother.
The sailors threw some more of the flesh they had on board on to the
ice. These the old bear fetched; and putting them before her cubs, she
divided them, giving them each a large piece, and only keeping a small
bit for herself. When she came to fetch the last piece the sailors
shot at the cubs, killing them; they also wounded the mother, but not
mortally; the poor mother never thought of herself, only of her cubs.
They were not quite dead, only dying, and she crawled to where they
lay, with the lump of meat she had fetched, and put it down before
them, as she had done the first time. When she found they did not eat,
she took hold first of one, then of the other, and tried to lift them
up, moaning pitifully all the time, as if she thought it would be of
no use. Then she went a little way off and looked back. But the cubs
were dead now, and could not move, so she went back to them and began
to lick their wounds. Once more she crawled away from them, and then
again came back, and went round and round them, pawing them and
moaning. At last she seems to have found out that they were dead; and
turning to the ship, she raised her head and uttered a loud growl of
anger and despair. The cruel sailors fired at her in reply, and she
fell between her poor dead cubs, and died licking their wounds.
[Illustration: THE FAITHFUL BOY.]
CHARLIE'S ESCAPE.
I have some boy-cousins living in the country of whom I think a great
deal. They write me letters quite often. I can hardly tell whose
letters give me the most pleasure, the "big boys'," who write me about
their school, their colts and calves, their good times on the
holidays, or the little printed letters I get from the "small boys,"
telling me how many chickens they have and that they love me. I am
sure I love them _all_, and hope they will grow to be good, true men.