thirteen years old, and rather small and slight for his years. A few
weeks ago a neighbor of his father's was going away, and got Charlie
to do "the chores" for him during his absence--feed the young cattle,
milk the cow and keep things in order about the barn. Charlie is an
obliging boy, so he performed his task faithfully. If I had time,
boys, I would just like to stop here and give you a little lecture on
faithfulness, with Charlie for a model, for he _is_ a "faithful boy."
But I want to tell my story. For two or three days Charlie went each
morning to his neighbor's barn, and after milking the cow turned all
the creatures to pasture, and every night drove them home again. One
morning, as he stood by the bars waiting for them all to pass out, a
frisky year-old calf--"a yearling" the farmers call them--instead of
going orderly over the bars, as a well-disposed calf should, just gave
a side jump and shook her horns at Charlie. "Over with you!" called
Charlie, and waved his hand at her. Miss Yearling either fancied this
an insult or an invitation to single combat, for she again lowered her
head and ran at Charlie, who had no stick, and so thought best to run
from the enemy. He started for the stable door, but in his hurry and
fright he could not open it, and while fumbling at the latch the
creature made another attack. Charlie dodged her again, and one of her
horns pierced the door nearly an inch. Again she ran at him, and with
her nose "bunted" him off his feet. Charlie was getting afraid now,
and called out to the folks in the house, "Oh, come and help me!" and
right then he bethought him of something he had read in his father's
"Agriculturist" about a boy in similar danger, who saved himself by
grasping the cow's horns that had attacked him. So just as the
yearling was about to try again if she could push him over, he took
fast hold of each horn. But his situation was getting _very
unpleasant_, for he was penned up in a corner, with the barn behind
him, a high fence on one side and the now angry heifer in front. He
had regained his feet, but was pushed and staggered about, for he was
fast losing his strength. No wonder his voice had a quiver in it as he
again shouted as loud as he could, "Oh, do come quick!" The lady in
the house was busy getting breakfast, and heard no sound. A
lady-visitor in one of the chambers heard the first call, but thought
it only boys at play. By and by the distressed shout again smote her
ears, and this time she heard the words, "Help me!" She ran down
stairs to the housekeeper, who opened the outside door and listened.
Charlie's voice was weak and faint now, and the fear came to the lady
that he had fallen into the barn cellar. She ran quickly to the great
door of the barn. "Where are you, Charlie?" "Come to the stable door,"
answered back a faint, trembling voice. She quickly ran through the
barn to that door, but she could not open it at first, for the heifer
had pushed herself around till she stood broadside against the door.
But the lady pushed hard and got the door open a little way, and
seizing the big stable broom hit the naughty animal two or three heavy
whacks that made her move around; and as soon as she opened the door
wide, Charlie let go her horns, and she (the heifer), not liking the
big broom-handle, turned and ran off as fast as her legs could go. The
lady helped Charlie up and into the house, for he could hardly stand.
He was bruised and lame, and the breath had almost left him. But after
resting a while and taking some good warm drink, he tried to walk
home; and though the lady helped him, he found it hard work, for he
was so sore and bruised. Charlie's mother was frightened enough to see
her boy come home leaning on their neighbor's arm and looking so pale.
She helped him undress and lie down, and then she did just what your
mother, little reader-boy, would do if you had such an escape as
Charlie's. She put her arms around her boy and said, "Let us thank the
good Lord that you were not killed, my boy." And do you think Charlie
will ever forget his escape? I don't. And I hope he will always thank
"the good Lord" not only for the escape, but for his every blessing.
I AM COMING!
I am coming! I am coming! sings the robin on the wing;
Soon the gates of spring will open; where you loiter I will sing;
Turn your thoughts to merriest music, send it ringing down the vale,
Where the yellow-bird is waiting on the old brown meadow-rail.
I am coming! I am coming! sings the summer from afar;
And her voice is like the shining of some silver-mantled star;
In it breathes the breath of flowers, in it hides the dawn of day,
In it wake the happy showers of the merry, merry May!
DAISY'S TEMPTATION.
"I don't think grandma would ever know it. I could just slip them into
my pocket and put them on after I get there as e-a-sy! I'll do it;"
and Daisy Dorsey lifted her grandma's gold beads from a box on her
lap. She clasped them about her chubby neck and stood before the
mirror, talking softly to herself. "How nice it will be!" she said,
drawing up her little figure till only the tip of her nose was visible
in the glass. "And Jimmy Martin will let me fly his kite instead of
Hetty Lee. Hetty Lee, indeed! I don't believe she ever had any
grandmother--not such a grandmother as mine, anyway."
Then the proud little Daisy fell to thinking of the verse her mother
had read to her that morning, about the dear Father in heaven who sees
us always, and the blessed angels who are so holy and so pure.
"And I promised mamma I would be so good and try so hard to do right
always. No, no; I can't do it. Lie there, little pretty gold beads.
Daisy loves you, but she wants to be good too. So good-bye, dear
little, bright gold beads," laying them softly back in the drawer and
turning away with her eyes like violets in the rain.
Now, it so happened that good Grandma Ellis had heard every word Daisy
had said, had seen her take the beads from their box in the drawer,
knew just how her darling was tempted and how she had conquered pride
and evil desire in her little heart, for she was in her bath-room,
adjoining her chamber; and the door being ajar, she could hear and see
all that Daisy said and did.
How glad she was when she heard her say, "I can't do it. Good-bye,
pretty gold beads!" and she felt so sorry, too, for the great tears in
the sweet blue eyes.
Daisy wore the coral beads to the picnic, and no child had a merrier
day than she, for she had struggled with temptation, had overcome
through the loving Father's aid, and so was happy, as we all are when
we do right.
That evening, when the harvest-moon lifted its bright face to the
bosom of the east, Grandma Ellis sat in her old-fashioned high-backed
chair thinking.
Such a pretty picture she made, too, with her light shawl draped
gracefully over her shoulders, her kerchief and cap so snowy, and her
sweet face so full of God's love and his divinest peace!
In her hands she held the gold beads, and there was something very
like tears in her gray eyes, for the necklace had a history that only
grandma knew--she and one other, whose face that night was far away
where they need no light of the moon, nor of the sun, for God is the
light of the place.
"Come here, Daisy," she said, presently. "Come to grandma."
The little creature flew like a bird, for she loved the sound of that
dear old voice; and besides, Daisy was a happy child that night, and
in her heart the singing-birds of content and joy kept up a merry
music of their own.
[Illustration: DAISY'S TEMPTATION.]
Grandma Ellis threw the little necklace over Daisy's head as she came
toward her, and lifting her to her knee and kissing her glad eyes
said, speaking low and softly,
"That is for my Daisy to keep always, for grandma's sake. It is not
just the ornament for your little dear neck in these days, but keep it
always, because grandma loved it and gave it to her darling that would
not deceive her, even for the sake of flying Jimmy Martin's kite at
the picnic."
Then Daisy was sure grandma knew all about her sad temptation, and how
she had coveted the bright gold beads for just one little day. Now
they were to be hers for ever, and half for shame, half for very joy,
Daisy hid her curly head in grandma's bosom and sobbed aloud.
"Hush, darling!" grandma said; "we are all tempted to do wrong
sometimes, and the dear Father in heaven suffers this to be that we
may grow stronger through resistance. Now, if you had yielded to the
voice of pride and desire this morning, do you think you could have
been happy to-day, even with the necklace and flying Jimmy's kite?"
"No, no! Oh, grandma, forgive me!" sobbed the little voice from
grandma's bosom.
"Yes, dear, as I am sure God does, who saw how you were sorely tried
and surely conqueror. Kiss me good-night now; and when you have said
your 'Now I lay me,' add, 'Dear Father, help grandma's Daisy to be
good and happy always.'"
An hour later, with the gold beads still about her neck, Daisy in her
little bed was dreaming of the beautiful fields and flowers that are
for ever fadeless in the land we name eternal; and the blessed angels,
guarding her slumber and seeing the smile upon her happy lips, were
glad because of Daisy's temptation, for they knew that the dear child
would be stronger and purer and better because she had overcome.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush say "I love and I love!"
In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong;
What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather,
And singing and loving, all come back together.
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings and he sings, and for ever sings he,
"I love my love, and my love loves me."
[Illustration: NELLY'S GARDEN.]
WHAT NELLY GAVE AWAY.
Nelly Ray was a bright, brave-hearted little girl, whom no one could
help loving.
Singing like a lark in the morning, wearing sweet smiles on her face
all day, cheerful even when the shadows fell, it would have been
strange indeed if her humble home had not seemed like a bit of
paradise, and the ground under her feet had not blossomed like the
rose.
It was a pleasant day in the early spring, when the grass was just
lifting itself above the moist earth, when the soft south wind was
blowing among the tender little leaves of the lilac bushes, when the
birds were busy building their nests, when the merry little brook was
beginning its song and the great round world looked glad and bright,
that Nelly began to make her garden.
Her father had dug the ground and made it ready for her, and so she
took her little red basket full of seeds of different kinds, each kind
tied up by itself and labelled, and down in the little beds she
dropped candy-tuft, and phlox, and lady-slippers.
How happy she was at her work! Her cheeks were the color of ripe
peaches, her eyes were as sweet as twin violets, and her little mouth
was like a fresh rosebud, but better and brighter far than the cheeks
and lips was the light of kindness that shone in her eyes.
Her sister Jennie, who sat sewing by the window, watched her with
loving interest.
"Mother," she said, at length, looking up from her work, "do you know
what a generous little girl our Nelly would be if she was only a rich
man's child?"
"Is she not generous now, Jennie?" asked her mother.
"Oh yes, surely she is. But I was thinking how much good she would do,
and how much she would give away, if only we were not poor."
She saw that her mother was smiling softly to herself.
"She gives away more now, of course, than some rich children do. Just
think how faithfully she works in that little garden, so as to have
flowers to give away! I do not believe there is a house anywhere near
us into which sickness or poverty comes where her simple flowers will
not go."
"Did you ever think, dear Jennie, of the other garden which Nelly
weeds and waters every day?"
"No, mother. What garden do you mean?"
"The garden of her heart, my dear child. You know that the rain which
the clouds take from the lakes and rivers comes back to refresh and
beautify our fields and gardens; and so it is with our little Nelly's
good deeds and kind, loving words. She gives away more than a handful
of violets, for with them goes a bright smile, which is like sunshine
to the sick heart. She gives more than a bunch of roses, for with them
always goes a kind word. And doing these little things, she gets a
large reward. Her own heart grows richer."
A STRANGE COMBAT.
We are told that the old Romans greatly delighted in witnessing the
combats of wild beasts, as well as gladiators, and that they used to
ransack their whole broad empire for new and unheard-of
animals--anything and everything that had fierceness and fight in it.
Those vast amphitheatres, like the Coliseum, were built to gratify
these rather sanguinary tastes in that direction.
But I doubt whether even the old Romans, with all their large
experience, ever beheld so strange and grotesque a "set-to" (I'm
pretty sure none of our American boys ever did) as the writer once
stumbled upon, on the shores of one of our Northern Maine lakes--Lake
Pennesseewassee, if you can pronounce that; it trips up editors
sometimes.
I had been spending the day in the neighboring forest, hunting for a
black squirrel I had seen there the evening before, having with me a
great, red-shirted lumberman, named Ben--Ben Murch. And not finding
our squirrel, we were making our way, towards evening, down through
the thick alders which skirted the lake, to the shore, in the hope of
getting a shot at an otter, or a mink, when all at once a great sound,
a sort of _quock, quock_, accompanied by a great splashing of the
water, came to our ears.
"Hush!" ejaculated Ben, clapping his hand to his ear (as his custom
was), to catch the sound. "Hear that? Some sort of a fracas."
And cautiously pushing through the dense copse, a very singular and
comical spectacle met our eyes. For out some two or three rods from
the muddy, grassy shore stood a tall, a very tall bird,--somewhere
from four to five feet, I judged,--with long, thin, black legs, and
an awkward body, slovenly clad in dull gray-blue plumage. The neck
was as long as the legs, and the head small, and nearly bare, with a
long, yellowish bill. Standing knee deep in the muddied water, it was,
on the whole, about the most ungainly-looking fowl you can well
imagine; while on a half-buried tree trunk, running out towards it
into the water, crouched a wiry, black creature, of about average dog
size, wriggling a long, restless tail, and apparently in the very act
of springing at the long-legged biped in the water. Just now they were
eying each other very intently; but from the splashed and bedraggled
appearance of both, it was evident there had been recent hostilities,
which, judging from the attitude of the combatants, were about to be
renewed.
"Show!" exclaimed Ben, peering over my shoulder from behind. "An old
_hairn_--ain't it? Regular old _pokey_. Thought I'd heered that
_quock_ before. And that creatur'? Let's see. Odd-looking chap. Wish
he'd turn his head this way. Fisher--ain't it? Looks like one. Should
judge that's a fisher-cat. What in the world got them at loggerheads,
I wonder?"
By "hairn" Ben meant _heron_, the great blue heron of American
waters--_Ardea Herodias_ of the naturalists. And fisher, or
fisher-cat, is the common name among hunters for Pennant's marten, or
the _Mustela canadensis_, a very fierce carnivorous animal, of the
weasel family, growing from three to four feet in length, called also
"the black cat."
The fisher had doubtless been the assailant, though both had now that
intent, tired-down air which marks a long fray. He had probably crept
up from behind, while old long-shanks was quietly frogging along the
shore.
But he had found his intended victim a game one. The heron had a
character to sustain; and although he might easily have flown away, or
even waded farther out, yet he seemed to scorn to do either.
Not an inch would it budge, but stood with its long, javelin-like beak
poised, ready to strike into the fisher's eye, uttering, from moment
to moment, that menacing, guttural _quock_, which had first attracted
our attention.
This sound, mingling with the eager snarling and fretting of the cat,
made the most dismal and incongruous duet I had ever listened to. For
some moments they stood thus threatening and defying each other; but
at length, lashing itself up to the proper pitch of fury, the fisher
jumped at his antagonist with distended jaws, to seize hold of the
long, slender throat. One bite at the heron's slim neck would settle
the whole affair. But this attempt was very adroitly balked by the
plucky old wader's taking a long step aside, when the fisher fell into
the water with a great splash, and while struggling back to the log,
received a series of strokes, or, rather, stabs, from the long,
pointed beak, dealt down with wonderful swiftness, and force, too; for
we distinctly heard them _prod_ into the cat's tough hide, as he
scrambled upon the log, and ran spitting up the bank. This defeat,
however, was but temporary, as any one acquainted with the singular
persistence and perseverance of the whole weasel family will readily
guess. The fisher had soon worked his way down the log again, the
heron retiring to his former position in the water.
Another succession of quocks and growlings, and another spring, with
even less success, on the side of the cat. For this time the heron's
bill wounded one of his eyes; and as he again retreated up the log, we
could see the bloody tears trickling down over his shaggy jowl.
Thus far the battle seemed favorable to the heron; but the fisher
again rallied, and, now thoroughly maddened, rushed down the log, and
leaped blindly upon his foe. Again and again his attacks were parried.
The snarling growls now rose to shrieks, and the croaking quocks to
loud, dissonant cries.
"Faugh!" muttered Ben. "Smell his breath--fisher's breath--clean here.
Always let that out somehow when they're mad."
Even at our distance, that strong, fetid odor, sometimes perceptible
when a cat spits, could plainly be discerned.
"Old _hairn_ seems to be having the best of it," continued Ben. "I bet
on him. How cool he keeps! Fights like a machine. See that bill come
down now! Look at the marks it makes, too!" For the blood, oozing out
through the thick fur of the cat in more than a dozen spots, was
attesting the prowess of the heron's powerful beak.
But at length, with a sudden bound upward, the fisher fell with his
whole weight upon the back of his lathy antagonist. Old long-legs was
upset, and down they both went in the water, where a prodigious
scuffle ensued. Now one of the heron's big feet would be thrust up
nearly a yard; then the cat would come to the top, sneezing and
strangling; and anon the heron's long neck would loop up in sight,
bending and doubling about in frantic attempts to peck at its foe, its
cries now resembling those of a hen when seized in the night, save
that they were louder and harsher. Over and over they floundered and
rolled. The mud and water flew about. Long legs, shaggy paws, wet,
wriggling tail, and squawking beak, fur and feathers--all turning and
squirming in inextricable confusion. It was hard telling which was
having the best of the _melee_, when, on a sudden, the struggle
stopped, as if by magic.
[Illustration: {The marten about to attack the heron}]
"One or t'other has given in," muttered Ben.
Looking more closely, we saw that the fisher had succeeded in getting
the heron's neck into his mouth. One bite had been sufficient. The
fray was over. And after holding on a while, the victor, up to his
back in water, began moving towards the shore, dragging along with
him, by the neck, the body of the heron, whose great feet came
trailing after at an astonishing distance behind. To see him, wet as a
drowned rat, tugging up the muddy bank with his ill-omened and
unsightly prey, was indeed a singular spectacle. Whatever had brought
on this queer contest, the fisher had won--fairly, too, for aught I
could see; and I hadn't it in my heart to intercept his retreat. But
Ben, to whom a "black cat" was particularly obnoxious, from its
nefarious habit of robbing traps, had no such scruples, and, bringing
up his rifle with the careless quickness of an old woodsman, fired
before I could interpose a word. The fisher dropped, and after
writhing and snapping a few moments, stretched out--dead.
Leaving Ben to take off its skin,--for the fur is worth a trifle,--I
was strolling along the shore, when upon coming under a drooping
cedar, some six or seven rods from the scene of the fight, another
large heron sprang out of a clump of brambles, and stalked off with a
croak of distrust. It at once occurred to me that there might be a
nest here; and opening the brambles, lo, there it was, a broad,
clumsy structure of coarse sticks, some two or three feet from the
ground, and lined with moss and water grasses. In it, or, rather, on
it, were two chicks, heron chicks, uncouth little things, with long,
skinny legs and necks, and sparsely clad with tufts of gray down. And
happening to glance under the nest, I perceived an egg, lodged down
among the bramble-stalks. It had probably rolled out of the nest. It
struck me, however, as being a very small egg from so large a bird;
and having a rule in my pocket, I found it to be but two and a half
inches in length by one and a half in width. It was of a dull,
bluish-white color, without spots, though rather rough and uneven. I
took it home as a curiosity.
On the edge of the nest I saw several small perch, a frog, and a
meadow-mouse, all recently brought, though the place had a suspicious
odor of carrion.
All this while the old heron had stood at a little distance away,
uttering now and then an ominous croak. I could easily have shot it
from where I stood, but thought the family had suffered enough for one
day.
The presence of the nest accounted for the obstinacy with which the
old male heron had contested the ground with the fisher.
Both old birds are said to sit by turns upon the eggs. But the nests
are not always placed so near the ground as this one. Last summer,
while fishing from the "Pappoose's Pond," I discovered one in the very
top of a lofty Norway pine--a huge bunch of sticks and long grass,
upon the edge of which one of the old herons was standing on one foot,
perfectly motionless, with its neck drawn down, and seemingly asleep.
The artist who could have properly sketched that nest and bird would
have made his fortune then and there.
C. A. STEPHENS.
LITTLE HOME-BODY.
Little Home-body is mother's wee pet,
Fairest and sweetest of housekeepers yet;
Up when the roses in golden light peep,
Helping her mother to sew and to sweep.
Tidy and prim in her apron and gown,
Brightest of eyes, of the bonniest brown;
Tiniest fingers, and needle so fleet,
Pattern of womanhood, down at my feet!
Little Home-body is grave and demure,
Weeps when you speak of the wretched and poor,
Though she can laugh in the merriest way
While you are telling a tale that is gay.
Lily that blooms in some lone, leafy nook;
Sly little hide-away, moss-sided brook;
Fairies are fine, where the silver dews fall;
Home fairies--these are the best of them all!
GEORGE COOPER.
[Illustration: NEDDY AND HIS LAMB.]
NEDDY'S HALF HOLIDAY.
"We've had a good time, Tony, old fellow, haven't we?" said Neddy
Harris, who was beginning to feel tired with his half day's ramble in
the fields. As he said this he sat down on some boards in the barn.
Tony replied to his young master by rubbing his nose against his face,
and by a soft "baa," which was as near as he could come to saying, "A
first-rate time, Master Neddy."
"A grand good time," added the boy, putting his arms around the lamb's
neck and laying his face on its soft wool.
"And now," he continued, "as father says we should always do, I'll
just go back and think over what I've done this holiday afternoon; and
if I forgot myself in anything and went wrong, it will be best for me
to know it, so that I can do better next time.
"I'm sorry about that poor squirrel," said Neddy; "he never did me any
harm. What a beautiful little creature he was, with his bright black
eyes and shiny skin!"
And the boy's face grew sad, as well it might, for he had pelted this
squirrel with stones from tree to tree, and at last knocked him to the
ground.
"But it was so cruel in me! Now, if I live a hundred years, I'll never
harm another squirrel. God made these frisky little fellows, and
they've just as much right to live as I have."
Neddy felt better about the squirrel after this good resolution, which
he meant to keep.
"That was curious about the spider," he went on, trying to push all
thoughts of the dead squirrel from his mind. Let me tell you about
this spider. In the corner of a fence Neddy saw a large circular
spider's web, shaped like a funnel, down in the centre of which was a
hole. As he stood looking at the delicate thing, finer than any woven
silk, a fly struck against it and got his feet tangled, so that he
could not escape. Instantly a great black spider ran out of the hole
at the bottom of the web, and seizing the poor fly dragged him out of
sight and made his dinner off of him.
Neddy dropped a piece of dry bark about the size of his thumb nail
into the web, and it slipped down and covered the hole through which
the spider had to come for his prey. Instantly the piece of bark was
pushed up by the spider, who came out of his den and ran around on the
slender cords of his web in a troubled kind of way. Then he tried to
get back into his hidden chamber, but the piece of bark covered the
entrance like a shut door. And now Mr. Spider was in a terrible
flurry. He ran wildly up one side of his web and down another; then he
tugged at the piece of bark, trying to drag it out, but its rough
edges took hold of the fine silken threads and tore them.
"You'll catch no more flies in that web, old chap," said Neddy as he
stood watching the spider.
But Neddy was mistaken. Spider did not belong to the give-up class. If
the thing could not be done in one way, it might in another. He did
not reason about things like human beings, but then he had instinct,
as it is called, and that teaches animals how to get their food, how
to build their houses or make their nests, and how to meet the dangers
and difficulties that overtake them in life. After sitting still for a
little while, spider went to work again, and this time in a surprising
way. He cut a circle close around the piece of bark as neatly as you
could have done with a pair of sharp scissors, and lo! it dropped to
the ground, leaving a hole in the web about the size of a ten-cent
piece.
"Rather hard on the web, Mr. Landpirate," said Neddy, laughing. "Flies
can go through there as well as chips."