of wild phlox and pink-and-white wake-robins stood in it. While they
sat there they saw Uncle Rube, who lives over on the hillside, coming
along the crooked path with a basket on his arm. His head was down,
and he was thinking so intently that he did not hear the steps behind
him of his young dog, Stephen.
Now, Rube means to make the best dog in the world of Stephen--the
playful little puppy!--and he never permits him to follow him anywhere
unless by special invitation. About once a week he will say to him,
"Stevie, would you like to go to your grandfather's with me? Come on,
then;" and here they will come, the puppy so glad that his gait is
more awkward than ever, his fat body, twisted out of all shape,
wriggling along, while his tail will flap about in every direction and
his ears look like wilted cabbage-leaves.
"He doesn't know Stevie is behind him, does he, ma? and now let's
watch and see what they will both do when they find out." So they
snugged down by the window and tittered and watched and anticipated
rare fun.
Uncle Rube was whispering to himself and nodding his head and making
gesticulations with his open hand, while Stephen trotted with his
little soft, careful feet behind him, smelling of the ground, and
thinking green grass with the dew sparkling on it was just made
purposely for dogs to admire.
Just as Rube came to the big gate and stopped to unlatch it he heard a
little whiffy breathing behind him, and then he looked and saw
Stephen. He was very much surprised; but as he never scolded the dog,
he simply said, in a very earnest way, "Steve, I am astonished! You go
right back home immediately. You're a great boy, indeed, to sneak
along without ever being invited! I didn't want you, sir, or I'd have
told you so. Now go right back again."
Oh, it was _so_ funny! Stephen just threw his head back and whirled on
his heels, and ran with all his might down the crooked path.
Then the school-bell rang, and Fred's mother kissed him
"good-morning," and he started off with his books, and as he turned
round the corner his white teeth showed prettily as, half laughing, he
said to himself in wonderment, "_Dear little Stevie dog! he just ran
back 'zactly as if he wanted to._"
NOW THE SUN IS SINKING.
Now the sun is sinking
In the golden west;
Birds and bees and children
All have gone to rest;
And the merry streamlet,
As it runs along,
With a voice of sweetness
Sings its evening song.
Cowslip, daisy, violet,
In their little beds,
All among the grasses,
Hide their heavy heads;
There they'll all, sweet darlings!
Lie in happy dreams
Till the rosy morning
Wakes them with its beams.
A RIGMAROLE ABOUT A TEA-PARTY.
Mrs. Dyer
Stirred the fire,
Agnes Stout
Poked it out,
Tommy Voles
Fetched the coals,
Alice Good
Laid the wood,
Bertie Patch
Struck the match,
Charlotte Hays
Made it blaze,
Mrs. Groom
Kept the broom,
Katy Moore
Swept the floor,
Fanny Froth
Laid the cloth,
Arthur Grey
Brought the tray,
Betty Bates
Washed the plates,
Nanny Galt
Smoothed the salt,
Dicky Street
Fetched the meat,
Sally Strife
Rubbed the knife,
Minnie York
Found the fork,
Sophie Silk
Brought the milk,
Mrs. Bream
Sent some cream,
Susan Head
Cut the bread,
Harry Host
Made the toast,
Mrs. Dee
Poured out tea,
And they all were as happy as happy could be.
THE FAIRY BIRD.
"I'm so glad to-morrow is Christmas, because I'm going to have lots
of presents."
"So am I glad, though I don't expect any presents but a pair of
mittens."
"And so am I; but I shan't have any presents at all."
As the three little girls trudged home from school they said these
things, and as Tilly spoke, both the others looked at her with pity
and some surprise; for she spoke cheerfully, and they wondered how she
could be happy when she was so poor she could have no presents on
Christmas.
"Don't you wish you could find a purse full of money right here in the
path?" said Kate, the child who was going to have "lots of presents."
"O, don't I, if I could keep it honestly!" And Tilly's eyes shone at
the very thought.
"What would you buy?" asked Bessy, rubbing her cold hands, and longing
for her mittens.
"I'd buy a pair of large, warm blankets, a load of wood, a shawl for
mother, and a pair of shoes for me; and if there was enough left, I'd
give Bessy a new hat, and then she needn't wear Ben's old felt one,"
answered Tilly.
The girls laughed at that; but Bessy pulled the funny hat over her
ears, and said she was much obliged, but she'd rather have candy.
"Let's look, and may be we _can_ find a purse. People are always going
about with money at Christmas time, and some one may lose it here,"
said Kate.
So, as they went along the snowy road, they looked about them, half in
earnest, half in fun. Suddenly Tilly sprang forward, exclaiming,--
"I see it! I've found it!"
The others followed, but all stopped disappointed, for it wasn't a
purse; it was only a little bird. It lay upon the snow, with its wings
spread and feebly fluttering, as if too weak to fly. Its little feet
were benumbed with cold; its once bright eyes were dull with pain, and
instead of a blithe song, it could only utter a faint chirp now and
then, as if crying for help.
"Nothing but a stupid old robin. How provoking!" cried Kate, sitting
down to rest.
"I shan't touch it; I found one once, and took care of it, and the
ungrateful thing flew away the minute it was well," said Bessy,
creeping under Kate's shawl, and putting her hands under her chin to
warm them.
"Poor little birdie! How pitiful he looks, and how glad he must be to
see some one coming to help him! I'll take him up gently, and carry
him home to mother. Don't be frightened, dear; I'm your friend." And
Tilly knelt down in the snow, stretching her hand to the bird with the
tenderest pity in her face.
Kate and Bessy laughed.
"Don't stop for that thing; it's getting late and cold. Let's go on,
and look for the purse," they said, moving away.
"You wouldn't leave it to die!" cried Tilly. "I'd rather have the bird
than the money; so I shan't look any more. The purse wouldn't be mine,
and I should only be tempted to keep it; but this poor thing will
thank and love me, and I'm _so_ glad I came in time!" Gently lifting
the bird, Tilly felt its tiny cold claws cling to her hand, and saw
its dim eyes brighten as it nestled down with a grateful chirp.
[Illustration: THE FAIRY BIRD.]
"Now I've got a Christmas present, after all," she said, smiling, as
they walked on. "I always wanted a bird, and this one will be such a
pretty pet for me!"
"He'll fly away the first chance he gets, and die, anyhow; so you'd
better not waste your time over him," said Bessy.
"He can't pay you for taking care of him, and my mother says it isn't
worth while to help folks that can't help us," added Kate.
"My mother says, 'Do as you'd be done by;' and I'm sure I'd like any
one to help me, if I was dying of cold and hunger. 'Love your neighbor
as yourself,' is another of her sayings. This bird is my little
neighbor, and I'll love him and care for him, as I often wish our rich
neighbor would love and care for us," answered Tilly, breathing her
warm breath over the benumbed bird, who looked up at her with
confiding eyes, quick to feel and know a friend.
"What a funny girl you are!" said Kate, "caring for that silly bird,
and talking about loving your neighbor in that sober way. Mr. King
don't care a bit for you, and never will, though he knows how poor you
are; so I don't think your plan amounts to much."
"I believe it, though, and shall do my part, any way. Good night. I
hope you'll have a merry Christmas, and lots of pretty things,"
answered Tilly, as they parted.
Her eyes were full, and she felt _so_ poor as she went on alone
towards the little old house where she lived! It would have been so
pleasant to know that she was going to have some of the pretty things
all children love to find in their full stockings on Christmas
morning! and pleasanter still to have been able to give her mother
something nice. So many comforts were needed, and there was no hope of
getting them; for they could barely get food and fire.
"Never mind, birdie; we'll make the best of what we have, and be merry
in spite of everything. _You_ shall have a happy Christmas, any way;
and I know God won't forget us, if every one else does."
She stopped a minute to wipe her eyes, and lean her cheek against the
bird's soft breast, finding great comfort in the little creature,
though it could only love her--nothing more.
"See, mother, what a nice present I've found!" she cried, going in
with a cheery face, that was like sunshine in the dark room.
"I'm glad of that, deary; for I haven't been able to get my little
girl anything but a rosy apple. Poor bird! Give it some of your warm
bread and milk."
"Why, mother, what a big bowlful! I'm afraid you gave me all the
milk," said Tilly, smiling over the nice steaming supper that stood
ready for her.
"I've had plenty, dear. Sit down and dry your wet feet, and put the
bird in my basket on this warm flannel."
Tilly peeped into the closet, and saw nothing there but dry bread.
"Mother's given me all the milk, and is going without her tea, 'cause
she knows I'm hungry. Now I'll surprise her, and she shall have a good
supper too. She is going to split wood, and I'll fix it while she's
gone."
So Tilly put down the old teapot, carefully poured out a part of the
milk, and from her pocket produced a great plummy bunn, that one of
the school children had given her, and she had saved for her mother. A
slice of the dry bread was nicely toasted, and the bit of butter set
by for her to put on it. When her mother came in, there was the table
drawn up in a warm place, a hot cup of tea ready, and Tilly and birdie
waiting for her.
Such a poor little supper, and yet such a happy one! for love,
charity, and contentment were guests there, and that Christmas eve was
a blither one than that up at the great house, where lights shone,
fires blazed, a great tree glittered, and music sounded, as the
children danced and played.
"We must go to bed early; for we've only wood enough to last over
to-morrow. I shall be paid for my work the day after, and then we can
get some," said Tilly's mother, as they sat by the fire.
"If my bird was only a fairy bird, and would give us three wishes, how
nice it would be! Poor dear, he can't give me anything; but it's no
matter," answered Tilly, looking at the robin, who lay in the basket,
with his head under his wing, a mere little feathery bunch.
"He can give you one thing, Tilly--the pleasure of doing good. That is
one of the sweetest things in life; and the poor can enjoy it as well
as the rich."
As her mother spoke, with her tired hand softly stroking her little
daughter's hair, Tilly suddenly started, and pointed to the window,
saying, in a frightened whisper,--
"I saw a face--a man's face--looking in. It's gone now; but I truly
saw it."
"Some traveller attracted by the light, perhaps; I'll go and see." And
Tilly's mother went to the door.
No one was there. The wind blew cold, the stars shone, the snow lay
white on field and wood, and the Christmas moon was glittering in the
sky.
"What sort of a face was it?" asked Tilly's mother, coming back.
"A pleasant sort of face, I think; but I was so startled, I don't
quite know what it was like. I wish we had a curtain there," said
Tilly.
"I like to have our light shine out in the evening; for the road is
dark and lonely just here, and the twinkle of our lamp is pleasant to
people's eyes as they go by. We can do so little for our neighbors, I
am glad to cheer the way for them. Now put these poor old shoes to
dry, and go to bed, deary; I'll come soon."
Tilly went, taking her bird with her to sleep in his basket near by,
lest he should be lonely in the night.
Soon the little house was dark and still, and no one saw the Christmas
spirits at their work that night.
When Tilly opened the door the next morning, she gave a loud cry,
clapped her hands, and then stood still, quite speechless with wonder
and delight. There, before the door, lay a great pile of wood, all
ready to burn, a big bundle and a basket, with a lovely nosegay of
winter roses, holly, and evergreen tied to the handle.
"O, mother, did the fairies do it?" cried Tilly, pale with her
happiness, as she seized the basket while her mother took in the
bundle.
"Yes, dear; the best and dearest fairy in the world, called 'Charity.'
She walks abroad at Christmas time, does beautiful deeds like this,
and does not stay to be thanked," answered her mother, with full eyes,
as she undid the parcel.
There they were, the warm, thick blankets, the comfortable shawl, the
new shoes, and, best of all, a pretty winter hat for Bessy. The basket
was full of good things to eat, and on the flowers lay a paper,
saying,--
"For the little girl who loves her neighbor as herself."
"Mother, I really think my bird is a fairy bird, and all these
splendid things come out from him," said Tilly, laughing and crying
with joy.
It really did seem so; for, as she spoke, the robin flew to the table,
hopped to the nosegay, and perching among the roses, began to chirp
with all his little might. The sun streamed in on flowers, bird, and
happy child, and no one saw a shadow glide away from the window. No
one ever knew that Mr. King had seen and heard the little girls the
night before, or dreamed that the rich neighbor had learned a lesson
from the poor neighbor.
And Tilly's bird _was_ a fairy bird; for by her love and tenderness
to the helpless thing, she brought good gifts to herself, happiness to
the unknown giver of them, and a faithful little friend, who did not
fly away, but staid with her till the snow was gone, making summer for
her in the winter time.
LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
[Illustration: "AS THE NIGHT ADVANCED, THE OLD NEGRO FELT THE COLD
PIERCE HIS STIFFENED LIMBS." P. 216.]
SAVED BY A FIDDLE.
Among the most rapacious and dangerous animals of North America, is
the wolf, commonly called the coyote (pronounced ky-_o_-te) in some of
the Southern and Western States. The wolves--far more numerous in the
United States than in Europe--are, perhaps, more horrible in aspect
than those of the old world. Along desert paths, on the prairies or in
the woods, the wolf, the ghoul of the animal race, presents itself to
the traveller, with its slavering jaws and flashing eyes, uttering a
growl, which is the usual sign of cowardice blended with impudence.
"The coyote," says a recent writer, "is a living, breathing allegory
of Want. He is always poor, out of luck, and friendless."
It is very difficult to catch coyotes in a trap, but they are
frequently hunted down with horses and dogs. Their coat is of a dull
reddish color, mixed with gray and white hairs. Such is their ordinary
condition, but like other animals they display varieties. Their bushy
tail, black at the tip, is nearly as long as one third of their body.
They resemble the dogs which one sees in the Indian wigwams, and which
are certainly descended from this species. They are found in the
regions between the Mississippi and the Pacific, and in Southern
Mexico. They travel in packs like jackals, and pursue deer, buffaloes,
and other animals which they hope to master. They do not venture to
attack buffaloes in herds, but they follow the latter in large packs,
watching till a laggard--a young calf or an old bull, for
instance--may fall out; then they dart upon it and tear it to pieces.
They accompany parties of sportsmen or travellers, prowl round
deserted camps, and devour the fragments they find there. At times
they will enter a camp during the night, and seize lumps of meat on
which the emigrants calculated for their morning meal. These robberies
sometimes exasperate the victims, and, growing less saving of their
powder and shot, they pursue them till they have rubbed out the
mess-number of several.
This breed of wolves is the most numerous of all the carnivora in
North America, and it is for this reason that the coyotes often suffer
from hunger. Then, but only then, they eat corn, roots, and
vegetables--in short, anything that will save them from death by
starvation.
The coyote is ignorant of any feeling of sympathy, and for this reason
inspires none. Here is an anecdote, however, which proves that this
quadruped thief of the wood is capable of feeling a certain degree of
sensibility of the nerves, at any rate, if not of the heart. This
story was told me under canvas, while we were hunting with the Pawnee
Indians.
During the first period of the colonization of Kentucky, the coyotes
were so numerous in the prairie to the south of that state, that the
inhabitants did not dare to leave their houses unless armed to the
teeth. The women and children were strictly confined in-doors. The
coyotes by which the country was infested belonged to the herd whose
coat is dark gray, a very numerous species in the northern district,
in the heart of the dense forests and unexplored mountains of the
Green River.
The village of Henderson, situated at the left bank of the Ohio, near
its confluence with Green River, was the spot most frequented by these
depredators.
The pigs, calves, and sheep of the planters paid a heavy tax to these
voracious animals. Several times in the depth of winter, when the snow
covered the ground, and the flocks were kept in the stalls, the
starving coyotes attacked human beings; and more than one belated
farmer, returning home at night, found himself surrounded by a raging
pack, from whose teeth he had great difficulty in defending himself.
Among the many startling adventures I have heard narrated, not one
made a greater impression on me than that of which Richard, the old
negro fiddler, was the hero, and which I will tell you.
Richard was what is called a "good old good-for-nothing darky." The
whole district allowed that he had no other merit beyond that of
sawing the fiddle; and this merit, which is not one in our own eyes,
was highly valued, however, by all the colored people, and even by the
whites who lived for a distance of forty miles round. One thing is
certain--that no festival could be held without Fiddler Dick being
invited to it.
Marriages, christenings, parties prolonged till dawn, which are called
"break-downs" in the United States, could not take place without the
aid of his fiddle; and though the negro minstrel was old, and a good
deal of his black wool was absent from the place where the wool ought
to grow, still Richard was no less welcome wherever he presented
himself, with his instrument wrapped up in a ragged old handkerchief
under his arm, and a knotted stick in his hand.
Old Richard was the property of one of the Hendersons, a member of the
family that gave its name to this Kentucky county and village. His
master had a liking for him, owing to his obedient and original
character, and the slave, instead of tilling the soil, was at liberty
to do whatever he thought proper. No one raised any objection to this
tolerance, for Richard, whom his master was used to call a necessary
evil, had before all the talent of keeping the negroes of the
plantation in good humor by means of his fiddle.
Richard, who understood all the importance of his exalted functions,
knew nothing but his duty, and was remarkably punctual whenever those
who honored him with their confidence let him know that his services
were required. In this respect the merest trifle irritated him, and
any vexation or disturbance rendered him ferocious.
Despite the proverbial timidity attributed to geniuses, old Dick
displayed a touch of the hyena whenever, at any of the negro festivals
presided over by him, anything or anybody offended etiquette or the
proprieties. As for Dick, he never forgot himself in the slightest
degree, and whenever he was called upon to undertake the duties he
performed so well, he had never once kept the company waiting. And yet
one day--poor Dick! The following narrative will show that it was not
by his own fault that he arrived too late at his appointment.
A wedding of colored people was about to come off on a plantation
about six miles from the one where the fiddler lived. In order that
the feast might be perfect, old Dick had been invited, and he was
unanimously appointed master of the ceremonies. It was during the
winter; the cold was excessive, and the snow, which had fallen
incessantly for three days, covered the ground to a depth of several
feet.
While all Mr. Henderson's negroes, with their master's previous
permission, hastened to the spot where pleasure called them, the ebony
Apollo was arranging his toilet with peculiar delight. A white shirt,
a collar as immoderately long in front as it was high in the neck,--so
that Dick's head resembled a block of coal in a sheet of white
paper,--a blue coat with gilt buttons, and long tails that reached to
his heels,--a present from his master,--a red silk cravat fringed at
the ends, a green waistcoat ornamented with an orange patch at the
spot where the watch-pocket formerly was, boots which had seen their
best days, and a wide-awake hat,--such was the elegant and excessively
fashionable attire of Dick, the old black fiddler, who, when dressed
in these rags, believed himself as handsome as Adonis.
After taking a parting glance at the piece of looking-glass held by
three nails on the wall of his bedroom, and favoring himself with a
smile that expressed a personal satisfaction, Richard took his fiddle
under his arm and set out.
The moon was shining over his head, the stars sparkled--to use the
fiddler's picturesque expression--like "gilt nails driven into the
ceiling of the firmament by an audacious upholsterer." No sound could
be heard, save the crackling of the snow beneath Richard's feet, as he
put them down with the heaviness of old age. The road he had to follow
was very narrow; its complicated windings passed through a dense
forest which the axe had not yet assailed, and whose depths were still
as entirely unknown as at the period when the Redskins were the sole
owners of the territory. This track could only be followed by a
pedestrian; no cart road existed for several miles round.
The profound solitude of this road must infallibly produce its
effect--that of fear or apprehension--on a being belonging to the
human race; but at this moment the old man was so deeply plunged in
thought that nothing could make him forget the anxiety he felt at not
arriving in time at the place where he was expected. He doubled his
pace as he thought of the furious glances that would be bestowed on
him by those whose joys his absence retarded, and he regretted the
time he had spent in giving an extra polish to his coat buttons and in
pulling up the two splendid points of his shirt collar.
While thinking of the reproaches that menaced him, old Dick looked up,
and the moon shining above his head proved to him that he was even
more behindhand than he had supposed. His legs then began moving like
the wheels of a locomotive, so as to keep him constantly ahead of
certain black shadows which seemed to be following his every footstep
on the forest path.
They were coyotes, horrible coyotes, that cast these shadows, and from
time to time gave a snarl of covetousness or impatience; but old Dick
paid no attention to them. Ere long, however, he was obliged to devote
his entire attention to what was going on behind him. He had walked
half the distance, and already saw through the forest arcades the
clearing which he must cross to reach the spot where he was expected.
The angry barks of the wolves had increased during the last quarter of
an hour, and the sound of their paws making the snow crackle inspired
the old man with an indescribable terror. The number of animals
seemed momentarily to be augmented; it resembled an ant-heap seen
through the magnifying-glass of a gigantic microscope.
Wolves, in all parts of the world, look twice before attacking a man;
they study the ground, and wait for the propitious moment. This was
what was now happening, very fortunately for old Dick, who was more
and more perceiving the greatness of the danger, and doubled his speed
in proportion as his pursuers grew more daring, brushed past his legs
with gnashing teeth, and joyously strove to get ahead of each other.
Dick was thoroughly acquainted with the habits of his enemies, and
hence carefully avoided running; that would have been giving the
signal of attack, for coyotes only rush on persons who are frightened.