walk to the skirt of the forest. There he hoped the coyotes, as they
do not dare venture into an open plain, would leave him and allow him
to continue his walk at peace. He also remembered that in the centre
of the clearing there was a deserted cabin, and the thought of
reaching this refuge restored him a portion of his courage.
The daring of the coyotes increased with each moment, and the hapless
negro could not look around without seeing bright eyes moving in all
directions, like the phosphorescent fireflies in summer. One after the
other the quadrupeds tried their teeth on old Dick's thin legs, and as
he had dropped his stick he had recourse to his fiddle to keep his
foes aloof. At the first blow he dealt the springs produced a sound
which had the immediate effect of putting to flight the coyotes, which
were surprised by this unusual music.
Dick, an observer naturally and by necessity, then began strumming his
fiddle with his fingers; and the carnivorous animals at once
manifested fresh marks of surprise, as if a charge of shot had
tickled their ribs. This fortunate diversion, repeated several times,
brought Dick to the skirt of the forest, and taking advantage of a
favorable moment, he darted on, still striking the strings, and going
in the direction of the hut.
The coyotes halted for a moment, with their tails between their legs,
looking at their prey flying before them; but ere long their ravenous
instinct gained the upper hand, and with a unanimous bark they all
rushed in pursuit of the unfortunate negro. Had the wolves caught up
to old Dick in this moment of fury, he might have appealed in vain to
his fiddle. By running he had destroyed the charm, and the coyotes
would not have stopped to listen to him even had he played like
Orpheus in the olden times, or Ole Bull in ours.
Fortunately, the old man reached the cabin at the moment when the
coyotes were at his heels. With a hand rendered doubly vigorous by the
imminence of the danger, he shut the door of the protecting cabin, and
secured it with a beam he found within reach. Then he hoisted himself,
not without sundry lacerations of his garments, on the ruined roof,
the beams of which alone remained, supported on blocks of wood at the
four corners of the walls.
Old Dick found himself comparatively out of danger; but the coyotes
displayed a fury which threatened to become terrible. Several of them
had entered the cabin, and conjointly with those outside they leaped
at the legs of the minstrel, whom rapid movements and repeated kicks
scarce protected from numerous bites.
Old Dick, in spite of his agony, had not forgotten his fiddle, which
had saved his life in the forest. Seizing his bow with a firm hand, he
drew from the instrument a shrill note, which overpowered the
deafening barks of the coyotes, and silenced them as if by
enchantment. This silence henceforth continued, only interrupted by
the hysterical sounds which the fiddle produced under the
fear-stiffened fingers of the old negro performer.
This inharmonious music could not satisfy the starving animals for
long, and from the efforts which they soon made to reach their prey,
old Dick comprehended that noise was not sufficient to enchant the
wolves. They dashed forward more furiously than ever to escalade the
wall. He considered himself lost, especially when he noticed, scarce
half a yard from his trembling legs, the enormous head of a coyote,
whose large, open eyes seemed to flash fire and gleam.
"The Lord ha' mussy on all!" he cried; "I am an eaten man!"
And without knowing what he was about, he let his trembling fingers
stray over the fiddle, and began playing the famous air of "Yankee
Doodle." It was the chant of the swan singing its requiem in the hour
of death.
But suddenly--O, miracle of harmony!--a calm set in round the negro
minstrel. Orpheus was no fable: the animals obeyed this new
enchantment; and when Dick, on recovering from his terror, was unable
to understand what was going on around him, he saw himself surrounded
by an audience a hundred fold more attentive to the charms of music
than any which had hitherto admired his execution. This was so true
that so soon as his bow ceased moving, the coyotes dashed forward to
renew the battle.
Dick now knew what his means of preservation were. He must play the
fiddle till some help arrived. Ere long, yielding to the fascination
of the art, the musician completely forgot the danger he incurred.
Indulging all the fancies of his imagination, he gave his four-footed
audience a concert in which he surpassed himself. Never had he played
with more taste, soul, and expression. Hence he forgot, in the
intoxication of his triumph, the wedding and the brilliant company,
the whiskey-punch and supper smoking hot on the board, that awaited
him no great distance off.
But alas! every medal has its reverse in this world, and all days of
pleasure have their to-morrow of woe. As the night advanced, the old
negro felt the cold pierce his stiffened limbs. In vain did he try to
rest; if the bow left the fiddle strings, the coyotes rushed against
the walls of the cabin; if, on the contrary, he continued to wander
along the paths of harmony, these _dilettanti_ of a novel sort
squatted down on their hams, with their tails stretched out on the
snow, ears pricked up, tongues hanging from their half-opened jaws,
and they followed, with a regular movement of the head and body, all
the notes produced by old Dick's fiddle.
While this fantastic scene, illumined by the moonbeams, was taking
place in the clearing, the negroes, who were awaiting their comrade to
begin the fun, were growing sadly impatient, and did not know what to
think of the delay of their musician, who was usually most punctual.
At last six of them, tired of waiting, left the house to make a voyage
of discovery; and on reaching the cabin, on the top of which Dick was
perched, they noticed some thirty coyotes in the position I have
described. The old player was still continuing his involuntary
concert, with his eyes fixed on his deadly foes.
At the moment when the six negroes raised a simultaneous shout, the
whole band of coyotes thought it high time to bolt. In a twinkling
they disappeared, and the fiddler, frozen and numbed, fell fainting
into the arms of his rescuers. His woolly hair, which, in spite of his
great age, was perfectly black at the time when he performed his
toilet, had turned white in the space of two hours.
SIR LASCELLES WRAXALL.
THE BIRD'S NEST.
Deep in a leafy dell we found,
When early Summer wove her crown,
A bird's nest on the mossy ground,
From blooming bough blown down.
Five pretty eggs, quite warm and white,
Were waiting for the brooding wing,
That from each shell there might take flight
A bird, to trill and sing.
The mother sat and grieved apart;
Her song had no rejoicing note.
The sorrow of her wounded heart
Seemed sobbing in her throat.
She thought of all the summer days,
With their sweet sunshine, yet to come;
Of fledgelings echoing God's praise,
While only hers were dumb.
[Illustration: THE BIRD'S NEST.]
THE YOUNG ARTIST.
"Well done, little one! A very pretty tune, and very nicely sung!"
The speaker was a stranger who had just come in sight of the pretty
cottage where Robbie and Maria Barnes lived with their widowed mother,
and outside of which the little singer sat nursing the baby, while
Robbie chopped wood at a little distance.
The widow, hearing a stranger's voice, came to the door, and seeing
that he appeared to have been walking far invited him to come in and
take a rest. This he very gladly did; and while she dusted a chair for
him, Mary brought a mug of fresh milk, and they were soon on very
friendly terms with him.
He said that he was an artist, and that he had come to that part of
the country for a time to take sketches of the scenery around; that he
was at present staying at the village inn, but that he would be very
glad if they could arrange to let him live with them for a few weeks.
This was agreed upon, and on the next day Mr. Page--for that was the
stranger's name--took up his abode in the widow Paul's cottage.
Very pleased Robbie and Maria were with him; and when he came home
from his rambles and sat under the shade of the large tree by the side
of the house finishing the sketches he had taken, they would stand
looking on with wondering interest. Robbie especially, who had never
seen any other pictures than those in his spelling-book, was rapt in
amazement as he saw hills, rivers, flowers, trees and animals start up
into seeming life under the artist's hand. Mr. Page, seeing how
interested the boy was in what he saw, invited him to accompany him in
his rambles. Robbie did so, and many valuable things he learned in
these pleasant wanderings.
When the time came for Mr. Page to leave these simple cottagers, he
was as sorry to go as they were to part with him; and he promised that
if he lived and prospered, he would endeavor to do something for his
favorite, Robbie.
This visit of the artist to their humble abode became the
turning-point in Robbie's life. An idea had taken possession of the
boy's mind. Why should he not learn to be an artist like Mr. Page? He
had watched very carefully the manner in which that gentleman
proceeded when taking sketches of the objects around him; he had begun
himself to look upon those objects with very different eyes from what
he had been accustomed to, and felt sure that with patience and
perseverance he could master the art of drawing and painting himself.
His first attempt was a rough sketch of grandma on his slate. It was
done with a few strokes of the pencil, but there was really some
likeness to the dear old lady in it, and mother felt sure her boy
would some day be an artist.
[Illustration: THE YOUNG ARTIST.]
Several weeks passed away, and at length he thought he might attempt
the portrait of his little dog, "Pink," and, if he could succeed to
his satisfaction, he determined that he would carry it home and
surprise his mother with it. After much patient labor he finished his
task, and showed the sketch first of all to his friend Thomas, who
being much pleased with it, they hastened at once to Robbie's home
with it. Watching their opportunity, they stood the picture unobserved
against the wall, and waited to see the effect it would produce.
Little Maria was the first to notice it. "Oh, mother," she cried,
"here's a picture of Pinky! Do come and look at it! Isn't it real?"
The widow turned from her work to look.
"Why, so it is," she exclaimed. "Who painted it, Robbie? Where did you
get it from?"
"Robbie did it himself," cried Thomas, unable to keep the secret any
longer.
"Robbie did it?" echoed the widow, with a look of bewilderment. "_You_
painted it, Robbie?"
"Yes, mother," laughed Robbie, enjoying her perplexity; "I did it all
myself. I have been learning unknown to you. If I can learn to paint
as well as Mr. Page, mother, eh! Sha'n't I be able to help you then,
mother?"
She smiled and kissed him. His cleverness was pleasing to her, but his
loving ambition to be of service to her was still more grateful to her
mother's heart.
The famous Benjamin West said his mother's kiss made him a painter.
Robbie Barnes might have said the same thing, for from that moment he
was more than ever determined to persevere. A few weeks after this,
Robbie and Thomas were out in the woods together. It was a holiday
with them both, and Robbie had determined to spend the time in
sketching a certain landscape he had in view. They had brought their
dinner with them; and while Robbie was drawing, Thomas laid out the
provisions. Having got it all ready, he went off to the brook to fetch
a mug of water, and as he returned called to Robbie to come to dinner.
But what was his annoyance, as he came near, to see the mischievous
dog munching the last piece of cheese? In sudden passion he caught up
a stick and gave chase to Pink, who scampered off with the cheese in
his mouth. Robbie was so amused at the comical scene that he thought
he would attempt a painting of it, and this idea set Thomas laughing
as heartily as himself. It was weeks before he had finished the
sketch; but when it was completed, it made a striking picture for a
boy of his age.
Years passed, and Robbie worked faithfully at his painting, and made
such progress that Mr. Moring urged him to go with him on a visit to
the neighboring city, where he could see some gentlemen who might be
able to assist him in his desire of becoming a painter. Robbie was
unwilling to leave his mother, but she was resolved he should not lose
the opportunity for her; and shortly afterward Robbie, with Thomas and
Mr. Moring, was on his way to the great city, which he had never seen
before. Arrived there, Mr. Moring took him to an exhibition of
pictures, and there introduced him again to his old friend Mr. Page.
The artist, to whom Mr. Moring had already showed the painting of the
dog running off with the dinner, was exceedingly surprised that a boy
so entirely self-taught should have made such progress, and was
pleased indeed to see him again. His judgment of the merits of
Robbie's work was such that Mr. Moring undertook to have the boy
instructed by one of the best teachers of drawing, and so put him in a
fair way of attaining that upon which his heart was set--the becoming
a painter like Mr. Page. Robbie's mother, though sad to part with him,
gratefully consented to his leaving his home for a time for this
purpose; and though Robbie was much troubled to think what his mother
would do without the little help he had been able to render her, he
was persuaded that the best way to serve her was to improve himself.
He had not been long away before a message came to his mother telling
her that he could earn enough by the sale of his little drawings to
pay one of the village-lads to fetch wood and water, and to do other
little things for her; that he was improving very fast, and that he
had good reason to hope that he should one day be able to earn enough
to keep them all in comfort.
Little Maria was busy braiding straw when this message came.
"I shall not want Robbie to work for me, mother," she said. "I shall
soon be able to earn my own living, and I will help to support our
dear mother when she grows old."
"God bless you, my child!" said the happy mother. "With such dutiful
children as you and your dear brother, no mother need fear to grow
old."
You're starting to-day on life's journey,
Along on the highway of life;
You'll meet with a thousand temptations;
Each city with evil is rife.
This world is a stage of excitement;
There's danger wherever you go;
But if you are tempted in weakness,
Have courage, my boy, to say NO!
THE RUSTIC MIRROR.
Sadie's boudoir is a meadow,
Carpeted with blue-eyed grass;
Slender birches, rounded maples,
Frame her inlaid looking-glass.
Curtains woven up in cloud-land
Trail their fringes over all,
Shifting shadows gray and purple,
Which aerial elves let fall.
Hither Sadie, morn and evening,
Comes for water from the spring,
Pausing ere she fills her pitcher
Where the greenest mosses cling,--
Pausing where, as in a mirror,
She a wistful face beholds;
Magic mirror, for within it
Many a vision fair unfolds.
When the April clouds are driven
Over depths of azure skies,
Windows open into heaven,
And she sees her mother's eyes.
When she binds upon her forehead
Wreath of daisies twined with wheat,
She is queen, and wears a jewelled
Crown, with slippers on her feet.
When the glories of October,
Crimson maple, golden birch,
Make her mirror finer, richer,
Than stained windows of a church,--
She of golden-rod and aster
Weaves a garland for her hair,
Leans above the magic mirror,
Murmuring, "Mother called me fair."
But 'tis best when clouds are flying
O'er the clear blue April skies,
And through dreamy depths she gazes
Into heaven and mother's eyes.
M. R. W.
[Illustration: THE RUSTIC MIRROR.]
LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD.
Come back, come back together,
All ye fancies of the past,
Ye days of April weather,
Ye shadows that are cast
By the haunted hours before!
Come back, come back, my childhood;
Thou art summoned by a spell
From the green leaves of the wildwood,
From beside the charmed well,
For Red Riding-Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
The fields were covered over
With colors as she went;
Daisy, buttercup and clover
Below her footsteps bent;
Summer shed its shining store;
She was happy as she pressed them;
Beneath her little feet;
She plucked them and caressed them;
They were so very sweet;
They had never seemed so sweet before
To Red Riding-Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
How the heart of childhood dances
Upon a sunny day!
It has its own romances,
And a wide, wide world have they--
A world where Phantasie is king,
Made all of eager dreaming;
When once grown up and tall--
Now is the time for scheming--
Then we shall do them all!
Do such pleasant fancies spring
For Red Riding-Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore?
[Illustration: LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD.]
She seems like an ideal love,
The poetry of childhood shown,
And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own--
A younger sister for the heart;
Like the woodland pheasant,
Her hair is brown and bright;
And her smile is pleasant,
With its rosy light.
Never can the memory part
With Red Riding-Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
Did the painter, dreaming
In a morning hour,
Catch the fairy seeming
Of this fairy flower?
Winning it with eager eyes
From the old enchanted stories,
Lingering with a long delight
On the unforgotten glories
Of the infant sight?
Giving us a sweet surprise
In Red Riding-Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore?
Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying
As with early friends,
Did the little maiden stay.
Sorrowful the tale for us;
We, too, loiter 'mid life's flowers,
A little while so glorious,
So soon lost in darker hours,
All love lingering on their way,
Like Red Riding-Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
LAETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.
[Illustration: {Maggie runs to rescue the child from the bull}]
HOW MAGGIE PAID THE RENT.
Presence of mind is one of the rarest, as it is one of the most
enviable of endowments. It is the power of instantaneously forming a
judgment, and acting upon it, and includes not only moral courage, but
self-possession. No matter how brave a man may be in the face of
expected peril,--if he lacks presence of mind, he is helpless in a
sudden emergency. But, as this quality is an ingredient of the highest
courage, the bravest men invariably possess it. The presence of mind
of one man has often saved thousands of lives in sudden peril, on sea
or land. This is naturally enough regarded as a distinctively
masculine virtue; but it is one that both sexes may profitably
cultivate, as is shown by the following story. Girls as well as boys
should be taught self-reliance--to depend on themselves, to think
quickly and act promptly. Perhaps no emergency will arise in their
lives in which the importance of such mental training shall be
illustrated; but it is well to be prepared "for any fate," and the
discipline which produces this virtue gives strength and symmetry to
the whole intellectual organism.
* * * * *
"Is supper nearly ready, Maggie? It is time for Jack to return from
his work."
The speaker was an elderly woman in a widow's garb, and the person she
addressed was her granddaughter, a pleasant-looking girl, who might
perhaps have been fourteen years of age.
"Yes, grandmother, it is just ready, such as it is," replied Maggie;
"but I could wish poor Jack had a better meal after his hard work
than what we are able to give him."
"Ay, ay, child, I wish it as much as you can; but what is to be done?
Wishing will never make us rich folk, and we may be thankful if worse
troubles than a poor supper do not come upon us soon."
So spoke the grandmother, and taking the spectacles from her nose, she
wiped their dim glasses with her apron.
"Why, grandmother, what do you mean?" cried Maggie, looking up in
alarm. "What worse troubles can be coming, think you?" And eagerly and
anxiously she fixed her bright blue eyes upon her grandmother's face.
"Well," replied the old woman, "the truth is just this, Maggie: I hear
that the new landlord is going to make some changes among his tenants;
the cottages are all to be repaired, and the folks who can pay higher
rents will stay, while those who cannot must find lodging elsewhere.
And how can we ever pay a higher rent, Maggie? Even now, every penny
of poor Jack's earnings is spent at the end of the week, and yet we
live as cheaply as ever we can."
For a moment or two the girl's face was as perturbed and downcast as
that of her grandmother's, and she bent over her knitting in silence;
but by an evident effort she quickly assumed a more cheerful aspect.
And advancing to the old lady's side, and placing a gentle hand on her
shoulder, she said,--
"Don't fret, dear grandmother; God has cared for us so far, and he
will never suffer us to want, if we put our trust in him. That's what
father used to say, and what he said up to the very day of his death."
So saying, Maggie stooped and kissed the withered cheek of that
father's mother, thereby enforcing, as it were, her encouraging words.
"God bless you, my child!" sobbed the old woman, returning the kiss.
"You remind me of what I am too apt to forget. Yes, Maggie, your
father's God is our God, and he will never forsake his people. I will
wipe away these tears, and put faith in him for the future." And the
grandmother dried her eyes, and rising from her low seat, said
cheerfully, "Maggie, dear, go to the gate, and watch for your brother
Jack. When you see him coming across the field, let me know, and I
will dish up the supper, so as to have it ready."
Maggie put down her work, and passing through the low doorway of the
cottage, stood presently at the little gate that separated the tiny
garden from the meadow of a neighboring farmer, who turned his cattle
out there to graze.
Opening the gate, Maggie leaned against it, while with one hand she
shaded her eyes from the yet dazzling beams of the sinking sun, which
bathed with its parting radiance the western horizon, and crimsoned
the landscape around.
A moment or two she thus stood, but Jack did not appear; and wondering
why he should be so late, Maggie was about to retrace her steps in
order to fetch her knitting, when, from that corner of the field which
by a stile communicated with the landlord's grounds, she saw a little
child emerge, dressed in a bright red frock and jacket, and running
heedlessly along, nearer and nearer to the cattle, which hitherto had
been grazing quietly in the centre of the field.
Now, however, as the little one approached, directing her steps so as
to pass them closely, they raised their heads, and a huge bull, the
king and guardian of the herd, attracted doubtless and enraged by the
color of the scarlet dress, bounded away from his companions, and with
his savage head bent, and his tail raised, gave chase to the child,
who, frightened at the bellowing of the angry beast, quickened her
pace, and fled screaming towards the cottage gate, at which Maggie was
standing. But the utmost speed of which the little one was capable was
nothing to the long gallop of the bull, and in the first moment that
Maggie witnessed the child's danger, her quick presence of mind and
tender heart resolved to do what many strong men, less self-forgetful,
would not have dared to attempt.
Tearing from her head a colored kerchief, which she had thrown over it
before she came out, she sprang through the gateway into the meadow,
and bounding lightly over the turf, in another minute she had placed
herself between the fierce animal and the child. On in his headlong
fury came the gigantic brute, and was about to pass Maggie, seeing
only the scarlet frock just beyond, when the intrepid girl, springing
forward, dashed the kerchief across his eyes, and before he had time
to recover himself and recommence his pursuit, she had turned,
snatched up the little one, and was running towards the cottage gate.
Close behind the fugitives followed the bull, now recovered from his
momentary astonishment; but Maggie's feet were winged, for she felt
that through God's help she should save the child.
A few more rapid steps, and the gate was reached and barred, while
Maggie tottered into the house, still carrying the child, and in the
reaction of the fearful excitement, fell fainting on the floor.