bad!"
Nino's face flushed, and his eyes glittered; but when the child
handed him the apple, he smiled, touched his hat, and said,--
"Thankee, little lady."
As he walked away, he did not notice the falling drops, but laid his
cheek against the apple, and smoothed its plump rosiness before he
tasted its rich juiciness.
Nino had no associates among the rough boys in the streets; he had a
pride that kept him above their coarse ways. As he played and sang the
songs he learned in Italy, dim memories of a better life came to him,
and his music seemed a holy spirit. He would have died but for that,
his life was so cold, hard, and bare.
He had been brought over by a sea captain, who dealt in boys; and as
he was very ill on the voyage, the captain let an old woman take him
for a small sum. She thought his thin, sad face would move the
passers, and in pity they would give him money. For this reason she
sent him out day after day, in storm or shine, ill clad and weary,
giving him but little food. But nature helped him. In spite of this
treatment, he became stronger, and after a time ran away from her.
Then he joined himself to a party of boy musicians, and by their help
got his guitar. But they were unkind to him; for he was yet weak and
timid, and the leader, a large boy, sometimes beat him if he refused
to play. One night Nino ran away from them, his precious guitar under
his arm; and since then he had played and sung through the streets,
sometimes begging, sometimes in despair, with thoughts of stealing.
His chief delight and comfort was to lie in the sun on a fair day. He
was always hungry, almost always cold, and when the wind did not blow,
and the sun was hot, he liked to bask on a step, and dream of good
dinners, pretty clothes, and a soft bed. The sun was the only thing he
could find in the cold northern climate which was like his old home.
In this way he would be nearly happy; but when storms came, he was
chilled within and without. The world then was gray; he could not even
play on his guitar, which in sunny days brought him pleasant pictures
of green fields, dancing water, and leafy vines, loaded with purple
grapes.
His guitar was his only companion, and he treated it as if it was
alive; he talked to it, cared for and loved it with a tenderness which
was of no value to the instrument, but was of service to the
friendless boy, in giving him an unselfish motive.
The autumn was fast advancing when he met the golden-haired child; and
as the days became colder, he cherished the thought of her, and it
made him warm when the sky was cloudy, as if she was a ray of
sunlight. He had generally slept on steps or any spot where the police
would leave him unmolested; but now the nights were so chill, that he
tried hard with a few cents to pay for a lodging.
With this purpose in his mind, he stopped before a house in a private
street one evening just after dark. The gas was already lighted; but
the curtains were not drawn, and Nino could see the table bountifully
spread, and a servant moving about, adding various articles to it. A
dancing figure passed and repassed the window, now peeping out, and
again running back. Nino's voice trembled as he saw this light and
warmth; and as he sang of "love and knightly deeds," he thought of
himself out in the cold, with nothing to love but his guitar, and he
felt very sad.
In a moment the door opened, and out sprang the child he had thought
of so long. The light seemed to follow her, and she cried,--
"Here are some pennies." Nino removed his ragged hat, and held it out,
and she said, "O, you're the same little boy! Wait a minute, and I'll
get you a cake."
[Illustration: NINO.]
Nino stood with his hat off until she returned and gave him a cake.
"You play such pretty tunes! and I know you now; for I've seen you
twice," she said, folding her hands, and looking at him.
Nino murmured,--
"Thankee, pretty lady," and looked at her as if she was a being from
another world.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Nino."
"Come, darling; don't stand out there," called her mother from the
house.
"My name's Viola. Good by," she cried, as she ran in.
Nino sang one more song, and then kissing his hand to the little form
at the window, went on his way happy. The money brought him a night's
lodging and permission to leave his guitar. In the morning--for the
following day was Sunday, and if he carried it with him, the police
might arrest him for trying to play--he made a light breakfast on a
roll, and went to the street where Viola lived, to see if he could
meet her. As the bells were ringing, she came down the steps with her
parents, and Nino followed at a respectful distance, until they went
into church. Nino attempted to go in also; but the sombre sexton at
the door frightened him with a severe look, and he wandered on. After
a time he came to a mission church, where, by a sign, all were invited
to enter. Taking a back seat, and trying to understand the preacher,
he fell asleep. When he awoke, the preacher was gone; but the room was
full of ragged children, and for the first time Nino found himself in
a Sunday school.
The teacher nearest to him was a sweet-faced lady, who spoke gently to
the boys of being kind to others, and patient with those who had not
the chance to learn that they had; she told them stories, to show them
how kindness would return to them, and how happy it made them to have
others gentle with them. Nino listened, and thought of Viola; and when
all sang some hymns while a lady played the piano, a new life stirred
in him.
When the services were over, the teacher gave him a paper, and asked
him to come again. He sat on the steps after all were gone, looking at
the pictures, and when he returned to his lodging went around by
Viola's house, and was rewarded by seeing her sitting in the window
with a book. When he reached the wretched place where he had spent the
night, and looked for his guitar, he could not find it. Asking the
woman about it, she said she was cleaning up, and it was somewhere on
the floor. Nino's heart began to swell, and when he found it in one
corner, snapped and broken, his grief and anger burst forth in a
volley of Italian. He hugged it, and sobbed over it, called the woman
a beast, and pointed to the ruin of his favorite in angry despair.
In the midst of this tumult of feeling the paper he had received
dropped out of his bosom, and striking his feet, recalled the
teacher's words and Viola sitting quietly by the window. Nino stopped,
and for a moment was silent, then saying, "You didn't mean to," picked
up the paper, folded his jacket over the guitar, and left the house.
His anger had vanished; but his grief remained. He spent the evening
in tears and wretchedness, alternately gazing at his guitar, stroking
it, and then giving way to passionate crying. At last he slept, curled
up in one corner, and in the morning awoke with a cough which hurt his
side.
Now he had only his singing to depend on; he had not been taught any
useful employment, and did not know how to work. He wandered about in
the most disconsolate manner, his cough getting worse, and his grief
for his guitar, which he always carried with him, still tormenting
him. Sometimes, when people saw the poor boy crouching in a corner,
hugging a broken guitar, and crying bitterly, they would give him a
few cents. He would not beg; something held him back, and the thought
of Viola would not let him steal.
On the Saturday after he had been to Sunday school, as he was sitting
on a step, sadly thinking, he saw Viola and her nurse crossing the
street towards him. At that moment a carriage with wildly running
horses turned the corner. Men on the sidewalk shouted and waved their
arms. Viola, confused by their cries, turned back, and the horses,
startled, dashed in the same direction. Nino threw aside his guitar,
and sprang forward, drew Viola out of danger, but fell himself, and
the carriage passed over his foot, crushing it, while in falling he
hit his head against the pavement, and lay insensible. Some of the men
ran after the horses, some helped the nurse carry Viola home,--for she
was crying and trembling with fright,--and a policeman took Nino away.
When Viola was restored, she began to ask for Nino.
"It was Nino, mamma, and I want to see him," was her constant cry.
Her father and mother were also anxious to reward the brave boy who
had saved their only child, and made many inquiries to find him. The
policeman had taken him to the station-house, and there no one
remembered anything about him.
"There are so many of those children brought in, madam, you have no
idea. We don't pretend to keep track of them all," was the only
information they could get.
At last they were obliged to give up their search; but Viola was much
dissatisfied.
About a week after the accident Viola's mother was invited by a lady
friend to visit one of the city hospitals. She took Viola with her,
and as they walked by the white beds, the child held her mother's hand
tightly, and felt quite subdued at the pale, sick faces about her. But
suddenly she bounded away, and climbing on a little bed, cried,--
"O, I've found him! here he is--my dear Nino."
Nino--for it was he--shrank back into his pillows, and covering his
face with his hands, cried aloud. From the station-house he had been
taken to the hospital, where his foot had to be amputated, and he had
lain for several days, with a bandaged head, in great pain. His guitar
was lost, and he had been so lonely, though the nurses were kind, that
at the sight of Viola his fortitude gave way.
"Don't cry, and don't be frightened," said Viola, kissing him, and
taking her handkerchief to wipe his tears. "I love you, dear Nino, and
now I've found you."
"Is this your Nino, Viola?" asked her mother, while the nurses and
other patients looked on with surprise.
"Yes, mamma; is he not pretty?" and she tried to remove his hands.
When he was a little more composed, Viola's mother thanked and praised
him for saving her daughter's life, and persuaded him to tell her what
he knew about himself. And the nurses told how patient he had been,
and she gave him some fruit, and promised to come again. When Viola
bade him good by, she put her arms about his neck and kissed him, and
they left him quite happy.
A few days after they came again, and Viola cried when she saw him.
"You are going to come and live with us, and be my brother."
"If you would like to," said her mother; and Nino's eyes sparkled with
joy at the thought.
Then he was carefully laid in the carriage, and taken to his beautiful
new home. More than he had ever dreamed, or fancied, came to
him--books, pictures, toys, kind care, love, and a fine new guitar,
with the promise of learning to play it better. An artificial foot was
to help him walk, and the wonders and delights of his home ever
multiplied.
Best of all was his sister Viola. He almost worshipped her; and it was
a long time before he could bring himself to treat her with any
familiarity. When she caressed him, which was often,--for she loved
him dearly, and he was a lovable boy,--he always kissed her hands. One
day she shook her head at this, and said,--
"Nino, that is not the way; kiss me good;" and she turned her face,
with its rosy mouth, towards him.
With reverence, as if he was saluting a queen, Nino leaned towards
her, and then with a sudden impulse, caught her in his arms, and
kissed her heartily. That was the seal of their affection, and from
that time Nino assumed all a brother's pride, care, and tenderness.
After he had recovered, they were constantly together, and their
mother was never so content as when Nino had the charge of Viola. He
never spared himself to serve her, and she was ever an impulse to
goodness and truth, shining before him like a star, as she had from
the first time he saw her. And she clung to him with the same love she
had first felt, proud of her brother, who developed a noble character;
and they all learned to thank the accident which had brought them so
happily together.
SARA CONANT.
COMMON THINGS.
The sunshine is a glorious thing,
That comes alike to all,
Lighting the peasant's lowly cot,
The noble's painted hall.
The moonlight is a gentle thing;
It through the window gleams
Upon the snowy pillow where
The happy infant dreams;
It shines upon the fisher's boat
Out on the lovely sea,
Or where the little lambkins lie
Beneath the old oak tree.
The dewdrops on the summer morn
Sparkle upon the grass;
The village children brush them off,
That through the meadows pass.
There are no gems in monarchs' crowns
More beautiful than they;
And yet we scarcely notice them,
But tread them off in play.
[Illustration: SALLY SUNBEAM.]
SALLY SUNBEAM.
This is not her real name. Her real name is Sally Brown. Why, then,
have I called her Sally Sunbeam? Why, because everybody else calls her
so.
The reason is this: she is such a pleasant, happy, kind,
sweet-tempered child that wherever she comes she comes like a sunbeam,
gladdening and brightening all around her. It was her uncle Tom who
first gave her her new name. He was spending a few days with the
family for the first time for some years, for he lived a long way off
and had not seen Sally since she was a baby. Sally became very fond of
him at once, and so did he of Sally. As soon as he came down of a
morning, there was Sally with her merry, laughing eyes to greet him.
Whatever he wanted done, there was Sally with her ready willingness to
do it for him. Wherever he went, there was Sally with her merry chat
and her pleased and happy face to keep him company.
And when the evening came, and Sally, with an affectionate kiss, had
bidden him good-night and gone away to bed, he felt as though a cloud
had cast its shadow over the house. So one morning, when Uncle Tom was
going out for a walk and wanted Sally to go with him, he said, "Where
is my little sunbeam? Sally Sunbeam, where are you? Oh, here you are!"
laughing as she came skipping in from the garden.
"But my name is not Sally Sunbeam, uncle," she said. "My name is Sally
Brown."
Her mamma smiled. "It is only your uncle's fun," she said.
"Well, it is only my fun," said Uncle Tom. "But it's a very proper
name for her, for all that. She is more like a sunbeam than anything
else. So come along, Sally Sunbeam. Let us go and have a nice walk."
And from that time Uncle Tom never called her by any other name. And
other people came to call her by it too, and everybody felt that it
was as true and fitting a name for her as ever a child could have.
Here she is in our picture, hanging up her doll's clothes, that she
has just washed. How bright and happy she looks! Uncle Tom may well
call her Sally Sunbeam. But it is not only her cheerfulness and
playfulness that makes her worthy of her name. This, of itself, would
not be sufficient to make her loved as she is loved. Oh no! It is the
kindness of her heart, the gentleness of her disposition, the delight
she takes in trying to make everybody happy. This is what makes
everybody love her.
Only the other day a group of several children passed the garden gate
on their way from school. There was one poor little thing amongst them
whose dress was so shabby and whose shoes were so bad as to make it
evident that her parents must be very, very poor.
Sad to say, her schoolfellows were jeering her and teasing her about
her appearance. One of these especially was taunting her very cruelly,
and the poor child was crying. Sally ran out to her, and putting her
arm lovingly round her said,
"What is the matter, dear? What do you cry for?"
"Because they keep on laughing at me so," sobbed the child.
"Well, who can help laughing at her?" cried the girl who had been
teasing her the most. "Look at her shoes! Do you call those shoes?"
And at this the children all burst out laughing afresh.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," said Sally, "to laugh at the
poor child and make her cry. It is very cruel of you. Suppose _you_
could not get good shoes, how would _you_ like to be laughed at?"
And there was something so serious and pitying in her tone that the
children _were_ ashamed of themselves, and went off without saying
another word.
"Never mind what they say," said Sally to the child. "Come into my
garden till they have gone right away. There! sit down on that seat
for a minute," she said, leading her to one. "I will be back again
directly."
And she ran to her mamma, and in a great hurry told her all about it,
and when the story was finished said, "I've got a boxful of money,
mamma, that I have saved to buy toys with. May I buy the little girl a
pair of new boots with it?"
"I must go and speak to her first," said her mamma.
So Sally's mamma came to the child and asked her a few questions, and
found that the little thing had no father, and that her mother was
ill, and that she had several brothers and sisters, and the good lady
judged from all this how poor they must be.
Having satisfied herself that the child's mother was not likely to be
offended by the gift of a pair of boots to her little one, she said,
"My little daughter here would like to buy you a new pair of boots.
Would you like to have a pair?"
"Buy _me_ a new pair of boots!" said the child, with a look of
astonishment. "Oh, but they'll cost a lot of money. Mother has been
going to buy me some for ever so long, only she hasn't been able to
get money enough."
"But I've got ever so much money that I was going to buy toys with,"
said Sally, "only I would rather buy you a pair of boots if you would
let me. And then those naughty girls won't be able to tease you about
your shoes any more, you know. So come along, and we'll buy them at
once. May we, mamma?"
"Yes, if you like." And away they all went together to the
bootmaker's, and the money that Sally had thought to buy herself all
sorts of toys with was expended upon a nice warm pair of boots for the
stranger-child.
Don't you think that Sally must have seemed like a sunbeam to that
poor little one?
But this is only one of the instances of her kindness and sympathy and
goodness of heart. She has learned of Him who all his life "went about
doing good," and every day tries to follow his blessed example. She
has her faults, of course, like the rest of us, and these she has to
fight against. But it is her virtues, not her faults, that she is
known by--her brightness, her good temper, her sweetness of
disposition, her kindness, her unselfishness; and this is how it is
that everybody agrees to call her Sally Sunbeam instead of Sally
Brown.
[Illustration: {A monkey is in the window behind Aunt Thankful}]
AUNT THANKFUL.
She was our school teacher, a little bit of a woman, hardly larger
than a good-sized doll. She had moved into our village years before I
was born; for so I heard the folks say, I don't know how many times.
Nobody seemed to know where she came from. She had no relatives--at
least, none called to see her or to visit her. Once or twice, as I
grew older, I heard dark hints whispered about Aunt Thankful, about
her having left her early home to get away from unpleasant memories,
but no whisper against her character. She was a good woman, a
Christian woman--only the people called her _odd_.
But everybody loved her. In sickness or health, in trouble or joy, in
prosperity or adversity, everybody was sure they could depend upon
assistance and sympathy, if needed, from Aunt Thankful. She was always
ready to extend her helping hand, always ready to do a generous act.
She was ever true to herself as well as to her neighbors. Perhaps that
was the reason why the world called her _odd_. If so, how earnestly I
wish there were a great many more odd folks!
Aunt Thankful lived many years in the village before she began to keep
school. I remember how funny she used to look as she came down the
street towards the school-house. She was so small that I should not
have been astonished to see her driving a hoop to school.
Then she wore her spectacles in such a funny way! What use they were
to her, I never could discover. If she looked at the scholars in the
school-house, she looked _over_ the glasses; if she was reading or
writing, she looked _under_ them. I have often heard boys, who were
considered truthful, declare that on no occasion was she ever known to
look _through_ them.
But what made Aunt Thankful so popular with the children was her kind
manner and her kinder words. Somehow or other she used to like the
poor and the friendless children the best. That was quite a puzzle to
me at first. We usually pay most attention to such as are well off,
and prosperous, and dressed nicely. But not so was it with Aunt
Thankful. She took sides always with the weak and the down-trodden. I
have seen her mend many an apron, many a torn dress worn by a poor
scholar, during school hours. She did it, too, in such a kind way,
that it made one forget that they were poor. That was because she was
ODD, you know.
As I grew up, I began to understand more of this good lady's character
than I ever dreamed when I went to school. I saw things in a different
light, as it were. And for her many good acts, from the fact that she
was about my first school teacher, I do not think I shall ever forget
her.
There is another reason why I shall never forget Aunt Thankful.
Perhaps I had better tell you about it. She kept our village school
one summer; I think it must have been the second or third year I went
to school. Anyhow, I was in one of the lower classes.
The school-house was a little box of a thing, hardly bigger than a
decent-sized shed. There was only one room in the building. The
teacher sat upon a small platform on one side, while the seats for the
scholars were raised, one above the other, on the opposite side. Over
the teacher's desk was a little square window, looking out upon the
horse shed in the rear.
It was a hot summer forenoon, and the windows were all open; the
morning lessons had been completed. Aunt Thankful sat writing at her
desk, now and then casting her eyes round the school-room, to see
that everything was in order. But there was mischief brewing. The
children were waiting impatiently for noon recess, and more than one
of them were having a quiet whisper or giggle all by themselves.
All at once some of the children saw the mischievous face of a monkey
peeping in at the little back window behind the teacher's desk. Of
course those who saw such an unusual sight laughed outright, greatly
to the astonishment of Aunt Thankful.
Rap! rap! rap! went her ruler upon the desk, as a signal for quiet. At
the noise the monkey dodged out of sight in a moment, and soon the
children were restored to order. Aunt Thankful went on writing.
To explain so unusual a sight, I ought to say that a strolling organ
man, with a monkey, had been in the village that day. He had stopped
in the shed behind the school-house to eat his dinner. Accidentally,
he had fallen asleep; and his monkey, being of an inquisitive turn,
had got loose, and was exploring on his own account. He carried a part
of his chain upon his neck all the while, and somehow or other he had
climbed up to the little square window, as related.
Aunt Thankful went on writing. But soon the monkey appeared again over
her head, turning his funny little face to one side and the other,
showing his teeth, grinning, and going through other performances.
This time the laughing was louder than before, because more children
saw the show. I must record here that a funnier sight I never have
witnessed.
The teacher looked up once more, and rapped on her desk quite
indignantly. "James Collins," she said, with severe authority, "come
here, this moment. If you cannot sit in your seat without laughing,
come and stand by me. You, too, Walter, and Solomon. And you, Martha
Hapgood. I am astonished at your conduct."
The recusant children ranged themselves before the teacher, who seemed
to think she had now quenched the rebellion. I noticed that they
managed to stand so they could have a good view of the window, as if
they expected, or even hoped for, another occasion for laughing.
And they didn't wait long, either. In a minute or two the monkey
appeared for the third time; and on this occasion he came wholly into
sight, chain and all, and began to dance up and down in his peculiar
way, bowing and nodding to the spectators. By this time all the
children had found out--by the usual school telegraph, I suppose--what
was going on, and joined in a loud and universal laugh.