more a pirate--that is, one who robs and murders--than is the
woodpecker or swallow, for they feed on worms and insects. The spider
was just as blameless in his work of catching and eating flies as was
Neddy's white bantam when she went off into the fields after
grasshoppers.
But Neddy's laugh at the spider was soon cut short. The most difficult
part of his work was done when he got rid of the piece of bark. As
soon as that was out of his way he began moving backward and forward
over the hole he had cut in the web, just as if he were a weaver's
shuttle, and in about ten minutes it was all covered with gauzy
lacework finer than ever was worn by a queen.
"I'll give it up, old fellow," exclaimed Neddy, taking a long breath
as he saw the work completed. "This just beats me out." Spider crept
down into his den again to wait for another fly, and Neddy, leading
Tony, went on his way pleased and wondering.
THE SPARROW.
Thou humblest bird that wings the air, the Master cares for thee;
And if he cares for one so small, will he not care for me?
His eye looks on thee from above, he notices thy fall;
And if he cares for such as thee, does he not care for all?
He feeds thee in the sweet spring-time, when skies are bright and
blue;
He feeds thee in the autumn-time, and in the winter too.
He leads thee through the pathless air, he guides thee in thy
flight;
He sees thee in the brightest day, and in the darkest night.
Oh, if his loving care attends a bird so mean and small,
Will he not listen to my voice when unto him I call?
[Illustration: {Mrs. Pike talks to Sarah and Jane}]
MRS. PIKE'S PRISONERS.
A TRUE STORY.
Early on a cloudy April afternoon, many years ago, several little
girls were playing in a village door-yard, not far from the fence
which separated it from a neighbor's. They were building a play-house
of boards, and were so busily occupied, that none of them had noticed
a lady standing at a little four-paned window in the house the other
side of the fence, who had been intently regarding them for some time.
The window was so constructed as to swing back like a door, and being
now open, the lady's face was framed against the dark background of
the room, producing the effect of a picture. 'Twas a strange face,
sallow and curiously wrinkled, with a nose like the beak of a hawk,
and large black eyes, which seemed to be endowed with the power of
perpetual motion. These roved from one to another of the busy
builders, till suddenly one of them seemed to be aware that some one
was looking at her, and turned towards the little window.
"Ah, I know you, Wealthy Robbins! Come here a minute, my little dear,"
spoke the lady, in a shrill, quavering voice. And she beckoned to her
with a hooked finger like a claw. But Wealthy shrank back, murmuring,
"I don't want to," almost under her breath, and nudging with her elbow
the nearest girl; "Hannah, Mrs. Pike wants something. See!"
"Is that you, Hannah Green? Come over here, and I'll give you a piece
of my Passover candy." And the lady waved in the air a long candle-rod
entwined with a strip of scarlet flannel, which made it look like a
mammoth stick of peppermint candy.
This attracted the attention of all the girls, and going close to the
fence, they peered through, while she besought them, with enticing
promises and imploring eyes, to come around under the window, for she
had something to tell them.
"Don't let's go," whispered Mary Green, the oldest of the group.
"Mother told me never to go near her window when she's standing there,
for she's a crazy woman. That stick isn't candy no more than I am."
"Come, Sarah; I always knew you were a kind little girl," said Mrs.
Pike, in a coaxing tone, to the youngest and smallest of the group;
"_do_ come here just a minute."
At last, Sarah Holmes and her sister Jane went around, and stood under
the little window. Jane said it could do no harm just to go and see
what Mrs. Pike wanted, and if _she_ was shut up in jail, she guessed
she'd want a good many things.
"Now, you dear little lambs, you see I'm all alone in the house; and
they've gone away, and forgotten to give me my dinner; and I'm _very_
hungry. All I want is a little unleavened bread, for this is Passover
Day, you know. Well, you just climb in through the dining-room window,
little Sarah,--Jane can help you,--and unlock my door, so I can go to
the buttery and get some bread. Then I'll bring you out a nice saucer
mince pie, and come back here, and you can lock me in. They'll never
know; and I shall starve if you don't take pity on me."
After some whispering together, the little girls did as they were
bidden, notwithstanding the warnings of their mates the other side of
the fence. When they had disappeared from view, Mary Green turned
away, and began to hammer, as though she was driving a nail into Mrs.
Pike's head, or Jane Holmes's, or somebody's, ejaculating, "I guess
they'll rue this day."
Which prophetic words came very near being verified at the moment
they were spoken. For no sooner had Jane unlocked the door of Mrs.
Pike's room, than out sprang that lady, and clutched one of the little
girls with either hand, almost shrieking, "Ah, I know you! you belong
to that wicked and rebellious tribe of Korah. Why didn't you come over
to the help of the mighty immediately? Now, you shall see how _you_
like dwelling in the Cave of Machpelah for a day and a night, and a
month and a year, until He shall come whose right it is to reign."
And she thrust the trembling, awe-struck children into the room that
had been her prison, and turned the key upon them. Then away she
strode out of the house and up the street, a noticeable figure, truly,
in her short yellow nankeen dress, with pantalets of the same, and
neat white Quaker cap, with long white ribbons crossed under her chin,
and carrying an immense umbrella over her head. It was strange that
none of the nearest neighbors should see her pass. The front door was
on the opposite side of the house from where the little girls were
playing; so they did not observe her exit; and thus it happened that
the crazy lady, who had been confined in the house for weeks, escaped
without any check upon her triumphant progress. Busy women, seeing her
from their windows, thought Mrs. Pike must be better again, to be out,
and did wish her friends wouldn't let her walk the streets looking
like a Dutch woman. Boys paused in their games almost respectfully, as
she passed by; for notwithstanding her strange appearance and rapid
movements, there was an air of mysterious command about the woman
which checked any rudeness.
"There goes Madam Pike," exclaimed one ragged-kneed boy, when she had
passed out of hearing. "Got on her ascension-robe--hasn't she? Wonder
if that umberil will help her any? I say, boys, do you suppose all the
saints that walk the streets of the new Jerusalem look like her?"
While Mrs. Pike walked rapidly on, with a keen appreciation of the
fresh air and occasional gleams of sunshine, the little prisoners
drooped like two April violets plucked and thrown upon the ground.
They were so frightened and awe-struck, that the idea of calling for
help from the open window did not occur to them; and they crouched
upon the floor, melancholy and mute. After a while, some odd-looking
garments, hanging in a row on one side of the room, attracted their
attention; but they did not dare to go near them at first. Mrs. Pike
was what was called a Second Adventist, and had read the Bible and
Apocrypha with a fiery zeal, and an earnest determination to find
therein proof of what she believed, and had attended Second Advent
meetings, and exhorted wherever she could get a hearing, until her
poor brain was crazed. But lately her husband and friends had kept her
in doors as much as possible; and she spent most of the time knitting
ascension-robes for the saints of the twelve tribes of the house of
Judah. These were long garments, coming nearly to the feet, each of a
single color, royal purple and blue being her favorites. She said that
she must improve every moment, lest the great and dreadful day of the
Lord should come, and she should not be ready, i. e., would not have a
robe prepared for each of the saints to ascend in. When her son, a boy
of twelve, died, she had him buried by the front doorstep, so, when
the procession of saints should pass out at the door, Erastus could
join them immediately, and not have to come from the burying-ground, a
mile away.
It was after sunset when Mr. Pike passed along the village street, on
his way home, and was informed by a good woman, standing at her gate,
that his wife had gone by about one o'clock, and that, not long after,
Jane and Sarah Holmes were missed. Some little girls they had been
playing with had seen them get into Mr. Pike's house through the
dining-room window, and that was the last that had been seen or heard
of them. Mrs. Holmes was going on dreadfully; for she thought that, as
likely as not, Madam Pike had thrown them down in the well, or hid
them where they would never be found, and then run away. The
bewildered man hurried home to harness his horse, and go in search of
his wife; for, with a trust in her better nature, worthy of a woman,
he believed that she would tell him where the children were, if she
knew. Fortunately, he found her in a tavern about a mile from home,
preaching, as the children would say. As usual, she was exhorting her
hearers to prepare for the great and terrible day of the Lord, etc.,
etc.; but when her husband appeared in the doorway, the thread of her
discourse was suddenly broken, and she turned and accosted him with,
"Ah, Mr. Pike, have you seen my prisoners in the Cave of Machpelah?
They belong to that wicked and rebellious tribe of Korah, you know."
"Well, Mary, let's go home, and see how they are getting along," said
he, in a confident tone; for he instantly divined who her prisoners
were, and that the Cave of Machpelah could not be far away.
Mrs. Pike was quite willing to go with him, and worried all the way
home; for she said prisoners were always in mischief, and there were
the robes hanging in the cave, which she had forgotten to put out of
their reach. So when they arrived, her first act was to unlock the
door of the children's prison. And her next was to pounce upon them
with even more vigor than when she emerged from it in the afternoon.
For there they lay asleep on the carpet, Jane in a purple robe, and
Sarah in a green, their hands and feet invisible by reason of the
great length of their garments.
"Don't hurt them, Mary," said Mr. Pike. For she was hustling off the
precious robes before the little girls were fairly awake; and they
might have fared hardly, had not the kind man been present to see that
justice was done; to wit, that they were compensated for their
imprisonment by pockets full of cakes and fruit, and sent home to
their mother without delay. That happy woman did not send them
supperless to bed, nor say a word about punishing them, either then or
afterwards. Perhaps she guessed that their punishment had already been
sufficiently severe.
"O, mother," said Jane, "at first we didn't dare to stir or speak, for
fear the crazy lady was listening; and she seemed angry enough to kill
us. I felt as if my hair was turning gray, and Sarah looked as white
as the wall. Well, after a great many hours, we began to look about
the room, and we saw those queer gowns she knits, hanging in a row;
and we got up and looked at them. By and by we got so tired doing
nothing, that we took them down and tried them on, and played we were
the saints. We tried to fly, but the old things were so heavy and
long, that we couldn't even jump. And after a while we were so tired
that we lay down and went to sleep, and never woke till Mrs. Pike came
home. O, but 'twas the lonesomest, longest, dreariest afternoon we
ever, ever knew--wasn't it, Sarah?"
This was the story, with variations, which the Holmes girls had to
tell to their mates the next day, and the next, and so on, until it
ceased to be a novelty.
But Mrs. Pike's prisoners were heroines, in the estimation of the
village girls and boys, for more than one year, and doubtless still
remember and tell to their children the story of their afternoon in
the Cave of Machpelah.
M. R. W.
WAR AND PEACE.
WAR.
The warrior waves his standard high,
His falchion flashes in the fray;
He madly shouts his battle-cry,
And glories in a well-fought day.
But Famine's at the city gate,
And Rapine prowls without the walls;
The city round lies desolate,
While Havoc's blighting footstep falls.
By ruined hearths, by homes defiled,
In scenes that nature's visage mar,
We feel the storm of passions wild,
And pluck the bitter fruit of war.
PEACE.
The cobweb hangs on Sword and belt,
The charger draws the gliding plow;
The cannons in the furnace melt,
And change to gentle purpose now;
The threshers swing their ponderous flails,
The craftsmen toil with cheerful might;
The ocean swarms with merchant sails,
And busy mills look gay by night;
The happy land becomes renowned,
As knowledge, arts, and wealth increase,
And thus, with plenty smiling round,
We cull the blessed fruits of peace.
[Illustration: WAR.]
CHERRY-TIME.
"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!"
We children used to say--
"The merriest throughout the year,
For all is bright and gay."
"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!"
The air is fresh and sweet,
And fair flowers in the garden bloom,
And daisies 'neath our feet.
"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!"
For hanging on the tree,
All round and glistening in the sun,
The pretty fruit we see.
"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!"
Up in the tree so high
We children climbed, and, laughing, said,
"Almost into the sky."
"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!"
The robins thought so too,
And helped themselves to "cherries ripe"
While wet with morning dew.
"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!"
The sunshine and the showers
Of God's rich mercy fall on us
In happy childhood's hours.
[Illustration: CHERRY-TIME.]
[Illustration: {The boys in the pond, fishing with rods}]
THE DAVY BOYS' FISHING-POND.
"Boys," said Mr. Davy, "how would you like to have a fishing-pond?"
The five boys looked at him eagerly, to see if he were in earnest.
"O, splendid, papa!" say they in chorus; "but how _can_ we have a
fishing-pond?"
"You know that hollow down in the pasture," continued Mr. Davy, "and
what a blemish it is upon the farm. I have wondered if we could not
make it useful in some way, and at the same time improve the looks of
things. I think we might build an embankment upon the open side, make
the slope steeper all round, bring the water into it from the creek,
and so have a fishing-pond. We should have to make a race-way from the
creek to the pond, and cut a channel through the meadow, in which the
water could flow back to the creek again below the fall. I think it
could be done," said Mr. Davy, after a pause, "only there would be a
great deal of work necessary, and we could hardly afford to hire it
done."
"O, father, _we_ can do the digging," shouted five voices in chorus;
"we can do it with our spades and wheelbarrows. School doesn't begin
for a month yet, and we can get it all done in that time."
"Hurrah for a fish-pond!" cried Percy, and in imagination he fairly
felt the bites of the three-pound trout he was to catch before summer
was over.
Mr. Davy is a practical farmer. By that I mean that he cultivates the
land with his own hands. He, with his men, and those of the boys who
are old enough, are in the fields every morning in summer by five
o'clock, ploughing, planting, sowing, or milking the cows, and, later
in the season, haying, harvesting, or threshing. Tommy, the eldest of
his sons, is thirteen years old; Clarence, the youngest, is five.
Mr. Davy had been thinking of the fishing-pond for some time, and had
matured the plan in his mind before speaking of it to the boys. The
morning after the conversation of which I have told you, I saw the
five boys standing in thoughtful silence upon the bank above the
hollow in the pasture. I do not believe the engineer who is planning
the bridge across the British Channel, to connect England and France,
feels anymore responsibility than did the Davy boys that morning.
"May we begin to-day, father?" said they, eagerly, at breakfast-time.
"Yes; and Patrick can help you," was the reply.
The horses were harnessed to the plough, and driven to the hollow.
Patrick was instructed how to proceed. He put the reins round his
neck, and took firm hold of the handles. "Go on wid ye, now!" he cried
to the horses. A furrow was soon turned, and the fish-pond fairly
begun.
"Your work," said Mr. Davy to the boys, "will be to wheel away the
earth which Patrick ploughs out. The first thing is to lay a plank
for your wheelbarrows to run upon."
Tommy and George soon brought the planks from the tool-house. Blocks
were laid the proper distance apart to sustain them, and, after two or
three hours' work, a line of plank, which looked to the boys as grand
as the new Pacific Railway, stretched across the hollow. The little
laborers went in to dinner flushed with excitement and hard work, but
as happy, I dare say, as if they had been to Barnum's Museum, and seen
the wax figures and wild animals.
Patrick had, during the forenoon, ploughed a good many furrows, and
now the boys were busy enough carrying away the earth. Each had a
wheelbarrow of his own--Clarence's a toy, which, with a tiny spade,
his father had brought from the city with a view to the work now in
progress. It required a steady hand to keep the wheelbarrows upon the
plank. They _would_ run off once in a while, and then all hands
halted, and lifted them upon the track again. The earth was to be
deposited--"dumped," the boys said--upon the site of the new
embankment. As the first loads were overturned, Mr. Davy made his
appearance.
"This fish-pond must have an outlet, you know," said he, "at the point
where the bottom is lowest. I will measure it off for you, and drive
three stakes on either side. Here we will have a gate; for our pond
will need emptying and cleaning occasionally. Fish will not live in
impure water."
The boys were delighted. All this excavating, laying out of
earthworks, and planning of gate-way, seemed like real engineering.
They were reenforced, after a while, by Patrick and the horses; and
then how suddenly they became tired, his shovelfuls were so large in
comparison with theirs--his wagon carried away so much more at a load!
Pretty early that evening little Clarence crept into his mother's
lap, and told her a marvellous story of the amount of earth he had
wheeled away; but his tired little eyes acted as though some of it had
blown between their lids; and soon mamma tucked him away for twelve
hours' sleep.
The hollow in the pasture, I forgot to say, was half an acre in
extent, and appeared as though Nature had scooped it out on purpose to
make a place for the Davy boys' fishing-pond. The creek, too, running
nearly alongside, was there to supply it with water.
"What shall we ever do with that hill?" said Percy, pointing to a rise
of ground on one side the hollow, as he and his brothers were
surveying their work; "we never can cart all that away, nor dig up
those trees, either."
"Let's leave it for an island," said Frank--"a _real_ island--land
with water all round it" (he had just begun studying geography); "and
the trees will make a splendid grove, where we can have picnics."
"The island will afford a harbor for the boat, too," said Mr. Davy,
who had just joined the children. "I suppose you will want a boat on
your pond--will you not?"
The boys could scarcely believe their ears. A boat of their own, on
their own pond! They had never dreamed of anything half so nice.
"Time to be at work!" said Mr. Davy.
All the forenoon, as I watched them from my window, I saw the
embankment growing slowly, but steadily, while the sloping sides of
the hollow became steeper and steeper. At night a visible step had
been taken towards a fishing-pond.
I cannot tell you about every one of the days during which the Davy
boys worked so industriously. At last, however, the excavation was
completed, the embankment raised to the desired height. The frame for
the gate-way stood firm between its crowding sides. Gates were in
progress at the carpenter's, made of solid plank, a door sliding up
and down over an open space near the bottom. This was easily worked by
means of a handle at the top.
"And now," said Mr. Davy, "to get the water into the pond. Patrick and
Michael must build a dam a little way up the creek and the race-way
from a point just above. We shall need a gate similar to the one at
the outlet."
The boys were glad to give way to Patrick and Michael, when it came to
building dams and race-ways. In the mean time they assisted the mason
who was lining the embankment on either side the gate with stone, to
protect it against the action of the water. The stone-boat, a little,
flat vehicle which slides over the ground without wheels, was brought
out, for piles of stone were to be drawn from a distant part of the
farm.
"But I shall want one of you to carry the hod for me," said the mason.
It was arranged that they should take turns at this; so one would stay
and fill with mortar the queer little box which hod-carriers use, and
bear it on his shoulders to the mason, who was fast laying the curved
wall.
"Why do you have the wall laid in this rounding shape, papa?" asked
George. "Why not have it straight?"
"Because the curve makes it stronger to resist the force of the water.
You notice that the mason chooses stones which are larger at one end
than at the other. He lays them so that the larger ends form the outer
side of the curve--the smaller form the inner or shorter side, as you
see by looking at this wall. The stones, thus wedged against each
other, could not be as easily forced out of place as if they were
square in shape, and laid in a straight line. Imagine the water
pressing upon the inner side of the curve. How readily the wall would
give way, and the water come pouring through! Have you never observed,
children," continued Mr. Davy, "that in bridges, culverts, or any
structure which is to sustain a heavy weight, the foundations are
always laid in the form of an arch?"
"Yes, papa," answered George; "but I never knew why it was. I see now
that it is to make them strong."
The boys had quite enough of hod-carrying and stone-quarrying before
the wall was done. In fact, Patrick was pressed into the service
repeatedly. The hod became too uneasy a burden for the boys'
shoulders, even though it was padded with sheep-skin.
A channel to convey the water from the pond was now the only thing
wanting. This was speedily begun, and the little workmen found
themselves down in a trench behind a low rampart of earth.
"Let's play we are soldiers," said George. "We'll have Patrick and
Michael for captain and lieutenant (only they must work, if they _are_
officers), and papa for general and engineer."
Each little soldier did his best. The officers worked faithfully. The
engineer came round often, and the dark thread across the bright,
green meadow spun out rapidly.
"Let's elect Frank quartermaster," said Tommy; "then he'll go to
headquarters, and make requisition for rations. _I_ think it's time
for dinner."
"Tell mother to send a big basketful, Frank. Soldiers get awful
hungry," said Percy.
"Tell mother we want to make coffee in the field, too," said George.
"Real soldiers do."
I fear that Patrick and Michael did most of the work after this, for
the department of the commissary seemed to require the attention of
all the boys.
Mamma was willing to issue rations in the field. "But," said she,
"soldiers often have only hard tack and coffee. I suppose you will
want nothing more."
This was a view of the case for which the boys were not prepared. They
did not wish to seem unsoldierly, but they were very hungry.
"You know, mother," said Percy, "soldiers had bacon sometimes with
their hard tack."
"And we are only _playing_ soldiers. We ain't _real_ soldiers," said
matter-of-fact Clarence.
His brothers were quite ashamed that he should give this as a reason
for wanting a good dinner, yet when they saw the pies and cakes going
into the basket, they made no remarks.